At The Corner of Quincy and West by Bob Kaufman

The camera of my mind captured many fond memories near the corner of Quincy and West streets during the days and nights of my boyhood in the 1950’s and 60’s. Gordon Hardgrave’s house sat back from the intersection and slightly uphill, tucked in next to the alley to the north, and Roy and Teen Wright’s log-cabin-like house to the east. Across the street – on the west side of West Street – lived the Bedient family. Billy Bedient and I played together a lot during those days. It seems I might have worn out my welcome just a bit because Billy's parents, Bill and Emma, soon gave me the nickname “Nuisance”, by which I am still called by the surviving Bedients to this day … but that’s another story.

Gordon Hardgrave at Home, circa 1958.

I remember nights when we played under the cone-shaped glow of the streetlight. Sometimes, the splintery, wooden light pole was home base for hide and seek or kick the can. Those games were fun, but often, a little more consistent with our boyishness, we would collect small rocks from the gutter, toss them into the dark void above the streetlight and wait for the bats to come darting after them. Anyway, I think that is what we were up to. Unless … I suppose there is a slight possibility we were trying to see who could hit the light with a rock …. Nah! We would never do that!

“Why is there air?”

That question first wended its way into my mind one summer night, likely just after we had abandoned our bat escapade because those flying rodents were getting a little agitated. The Hardgrave’s four-car garage sat closest to the corner. Due to the sloping hill, the back side of the garage roof was easily accessible. The gentle slope of the roof provided a place to lie and gaze at the stars. A large pine tree stood on the corner, shading us from the streetlight. It might have been some other evergreen species, but to me, every tree that had needles was a pine tree. Had I remained at home in my adulthood, I might have become educated on such matters. Nevertheless, in the fifties, our view of the heavens from the garage roof was unobstructed on those dark nights of the new moon, notwithstanding that pine trees were everywhere around our town. Indeed, we lived in the woods.

The Hardgrave Home, 1962.
Photo owned by Dave Hardgrave.
The garage was behind the photographer.

The Hardgrave lawn was terraced, given to the gentle upward slope of the hill away from the intersection. Several concrete steps led from the front yard up to the house at the highest level of their property. The front lawn a dozen feet or so right of the sidewalk sloped about twice the gradient of the garage roof. At the top of the slope was their fenced garden. One end of the fenced area was a pen for Daisy, the Hardgrave’s Muscove duck. The fencing was to keep Daisy from consuming all their fresh homegrown produce. That garden provided me with my first taste of raw peas.

According to Dave Hardgrave, Gordon’s older brother, they won a duck at the Plumas County Fair one year and decided, with an obvious absence of originality, to name it Donald. Then one day, Donald laid an egg, and thenceforth was dubbed "Daisy". Many years after Daisy's demise, Dave once quipped: "Daisy lived quite a long time, I guess, for a duck."

I do not recall having yet learned the concept of relative humidity, but in our little corner of northeastern California, separated from the Nevada high desert by just two or three more mountain ridges, the humidity was often lower than I had imagined. The cold, wet winters with frequent heavy snow, along with what seemed to be regular summer thunderstorms, misled my young mind into believing we lived in a wet climate. It was not so. The sloping grass was cool on those summer nights, and if it was not an allotted day to run sprinklers, the grass would be dry. When we would lie down, if we felt something damp, it was likely to be liquid duck “droppings.” Daisy was good at leaving her marks on the lawn. We had to be careful about that.

Gordon Hargrave at
the Portola Picnic Ground,
circa 1958.

Often, we would roll down the sloped lawn like logs and get dizzy. We could get dizzy by standing and spinning around with our arms extended, but rolling logs was more fun. Once the sky stopped spinning and the dizziness passed, we would just lie there and gaze at the stars. Have you ever lain on the grass on a cool summer evening, gazing into the heavens unobstructed by the moon or city lights? Truly it is a mind-expanding experience.

 

“Why is there air?”

“For that matter, why is there anything at all?”

 

Such was the beginning of my wondering. Surely, it was on one of those summer nights, lying on Gordon’s garage roof or on his lawn, near the corner of Quincy and West, that the Questions of the Soul first began to formulate in my mind and heart as we gazed with wonder and amazement into the heavens.

To be continued….

Families Can Be Together Forever by Bob Kaufman

 

Me thinks I squeezed too hard!

So many have responded to this image that I displayed in my Facebook profile yesterday. Trust me, I browse my posts, and linger over this image and others, more than the conglomerate of viewing time of all my other friends. In truth, I get more responses to my posts when they are about my sweetheart than to posts on any other subject.

Lately, my mind has been drawn in contemplation of so many long-time friends who have lost a spouse sometime before now. Last night as I retired to bed, later than she, a strange thought passed not quite quickly enough through my mind. I thought: “One less day together”, obviously looking forward and not backward. I did not want to linger on that thought very long.

When I cast the light of my mind over the wonderful life we have shared, the better and the worst, such thoughts evaporate faster than virga on a hot and relatively dry summer afternoon. The worst helps us to grow together. The best rewards our commitment to one another.

If the “why” question in this context should be in my future, I pray my faith will prevail. With billions of voices inundating the media and all our minds, most claiming there is no God, I strive to hold fast to the voice that says: “There must needs be a Christ,” who will return in glory and “wipe away all tears.” If this is not so, and they are correct who claim that the universe will eventually return to a state of nothingness, that there is no purpose to this existence, then I must ask: “What is all the suffering about?

Rather than conclude that there is no God, I strive to trust that there is. The question then becomes: “For what good purpose do these things happen?” I can only conclude that this life is the ultimate test, and the answer lies in what we may become. The foundation principle for me is the thought that we are, indeed, literal children of a loving Heavenly Father, who knows a whole lot more about this than we do.

In this context, I am comforted in advance, and hopefully thereafter, by the doctrines and sentiments expressed in this video. Therefore, I must share.

Turning Points: A Tribute to Mr. Bibb, by Bob Kaufman

Friday, June 3 was graduation day for the Portola High School class of 1966. I was asked to give the Welcome Address that night. I do not recall how that modest honor was bestowed, whether it was determined by faculty or students, but it is a memory I have held with some regard ever since.

The long-awaited night arrived. At 8:00 P.M. the band, positioned on the east end of the old gym, began to play Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, under the direction of Mr. Ivan Thompson. Two-by-two, we entered from the door on the west, walked down the aisle in the center of the audience, up the steps to the stage, and peeled off to our seats on opposite sides of the stage. I say we walked, but if I have not conflated this memory too badly, I think we must have looked more like zombies doing that step, pause, step pause processional march. I guess they stopped doing that a few years later ... but that’s another story.

Soon the music stopped. The Reverend Alfred Thornburgh offered the invocation, and then it was my turn. Draped in my purple gown and purple cap with a purple and white tassel hanging down over my left (I think) eye, I walked - more human like - to the podium and spoke:

"This is a great moment in the lives of the 34 students up here tonight. We have worked hard and long for this moment, and it is truly a great reward for our work.

High School Graduation has often been called a turning point in the lives of the graduates. This is definitely true for us. We are on the last step before beginning a new type of life -- a life in a world different from the one we are leaving. Most of us will have many changes to adapt to. Some of us may have only a few changes. But this is a turning point in our lives.

It was once said that "The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved."

So perhaps there is a better name for this occasion, something that describes it more exactly. But what is that 'something'?

To answer that question, I propose another. Why are we here tonight? Not to be congratulated for merely living for 17 or 18 years, but to receive recognition for our achievements during those years. That we are on this stage tonight is not unique of itself. Others have been here before us and others will come after. That we are here signifies that we have met some of our society's requirements, and are ready to seek our places as adults and to face other requirements of that society.

So tonight we are being recognized -- recognized for our work, achievements, and success. And without the help that you, as parents, teachers, and friends have given us, this occasion would not be so great for us. Without you, we would not have worked as hard, we would not have achieved as much, and we would not have been as successful. Our work is, in part, your work. Our achievements and successes are also yours. And not only do we welcome you to this occasion, but also we thank you for all that you have done for us.

This is truly a great moment in our lives."

Notwithstanding whatever honor it might have been for me to be chosen to speak first on the program, that is not the purpose of this story.

I recall appealing to Mr. Bibb for some help with what I might say in my brief remarks. As he was prone to do, he offered a quote that I could use if I so chose, along with some brief, general instructions. Then he turned me loose to create a draft. I am fairly certain the composition is mostly my own, but I believe there were a couple of revisions before it was completed.

Nearly twenty years later, I had forgotten the source of the quote. I had a vague idea, but it turned out to be wrong. I wrote to Mr. Bibb and received the wonderful letter shown at the end of this story. The quote was by William E. Woodward, Chapter 3, Part 2 of "George Washington":

"The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved."

That quote has held great meaning for me in the forty plus years since (note: this was written circa 2008).  I have experienced it both for good and for bad. It has been a significant part of my philosophy and has influenced many of my life choices. I have gratefully passed it on to others who have looked to me for guidance from time to time. It echoes a favorite scripture that I have loved for several decades: "By small and simple things are great things brought to pass" (The Book of Mormon, Alma 37:6).

Even that priceless lesson is not the most significant part of this story for me. On page 3 is a penciled note "Wed. 6th per. 1:52 ‐ 2:40". That was the appointed time when I met with Mr. Bibb in his classroom and rehearsed the speech. I remember sitting near the door in one of those student desks with the arm on the right side (glad I wasn’t a lefty), as he reviewed my composition, with his red pencil in hand. The red circles, underlines, double vertical lines and slashes are his (certainly the only time I was happy to see his red marks on my paper). He accompanied those red prompts with verbal instructions on where to breathe, whether to use a long or short 'A' sound, which words to emphasize with voice inflection and where to pause for effect.

On the evening of graduation, dramatic pauses notwithstanding, it was over in the blink of an eye, but the lesson I learned has endured the compounding of years. I have kept those cards as a reminder of the care and concern of a great teacher who truly had the success of his students uppermost in his mind and heart. He is one of several we were fortunate to pass along the way.

Thank you, Mr. Bibb. In the language of the present generation, "You are awesome!"

I originally posted this on el Tigre circa 2008. Here is some of the conversation that followed that post:

How great you saved this speech all these years! It is clear why you were chosen to give the address Bob. Well done. All of us are blessed to have the wonderful teachers at PHS. Mr. Bibb, in particular, shaped who I am today. I am grateful for this truly great man, teacher and mentor. Thank you for sharing. - Reply posted by Paula Brown (Buerger) (68)

The cards have more character because of Mr. Bibb's red marks! - Reply posted by Bob Kaufman (66)

I remember when Mr. Bibb came to PHS. I was in his first English class. He introduced himself to the class with his officer's sword laying across the desk and announced that we would now study Shakespeare. We studied Shakespeare. - Reply posted by Dennis Miller (59)

Don't you just love his subtlety? - Reply posted by Bob Kaufman (66)

Dang! And I got him after you guys softened him up. <LOL> Has anyone invited Mr. Bibb to the site? I think he'd get a kick out of it. - Reply posted by Bobbie Burdett (Barbara McNeill 65) (Deceased Apr 2, 2014)

Hi Bob: I sent an invitation to Jack again yesterday (I think) to sign up. I think he would really get a great satisfaction out of the site and all the contacts. - Reply posted by Ray Donnenwirth (50) (Deceased Nov 9, 2017)

What a coincidence Ray, I sent him a personal Email yesterday asking him to join...AGAIN. Even told
him you were still smarting from the " C" you got. :>) - Reply posted by Dan Olsen (59)

It is hard to describe Mr. Bibb , in my memories of him he had so many facets to his character, being a staunch ex‐marine now high school English teacher and Jr. Varsity football coach, in class he demanded your best and nothing less, and you better turn in your book reports if you did not want to have that cold stare from those big blue eyes while looking at you over his glasses, he could make your assignment papers light up like a Christmas tree with all those red marks. It seemed like Mr. Bibb and Mr. Rowden were a team. They cruised the halls and checked all the secret spots that students would be with their girlfriend or boyfriend and intentionally embarrass them. He was always at odds with Mr. Willock across the hall teaching history, as we all know Mr. Willock liked to express himself while teaching at the top of his lungs - yelling, ranting and raving and occasionally jumping up on a chair to make his point to the class. This drove Mr. Bibb sometimes to the brink of leaving the class and going over to quiet Mr. Willock. He was also a very fine coach he gave you the incentive to give your best

performance on the field. I remember seeing a side of Mr. Bibb that I had never witnessed before. It was the day President Kennedy was assassinated, Mr. Bibb was very quiet all of a sudden, then he made the announcement to our class after which he sat down at his desk and held his head in his hands and I could see that he was so upset there were tears in his eyes. In closing Mr. Bibb made me want to be a better person and put my best foot forward. So, Mr. Bibb, I salute you and I am proud to say I am a veteran of these United States of America and you were part of that personal foundation in my life. Ralph W. Kelley 67 - Reply posted by Ralph Kelley (67)

UPDATE: Marcy 10, 2021 - News of Mr. Bibb's passing today spread through our social media community like a California wildfire! The tributes and remembrances are many. We will all miss him and are grateful for the guidance we received from him during those precious years at PHS.

I was able to find the letter he wrote to me in response to an inquiry I made of him in the months preceding our 20-year reunion. I asked for the source of the quote that has meant so much to me all my adult life. I wish I had my original letter, but gladly I have his reply:

"Number Please" - A story about connections by Bob Kaufman

I don’t know when Calder and Richard happened by, nor when they went away, but for a brief time in the early 1950’s we were next-door neighbors. They lived in the little house beside ours at the top of the hill on Gulling Street. We always called it “The Little House”. I don’t know why.

The Kaufman House and The Little House
Hidden behind to the left, circa 1960

“I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

“Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

So wrote Charles Lamb. 

When I first heard this, that sentiment pierced directly into my heart and soul. I am certain it has application in both directions through the veils of birth and death … but that’s another story. This one is about the search that had engaged my mind and heart for decades, through the mists of time that have all but obscured the once-crystal-clear moments of earlier chapters of my life. The desire to find two particular old familiar faces stuck with me because of three black and white snapshots, and one very vivid memory of the time when I earned the wrath of “The Operator”. You should ask: “How could a pre-kindergartner possibly provoke a Bell Telephone operator?” Well … you’ll see.

Little Bobby Kaufman and
Richard Hammond circa 1952

The Big Snow hit Northern California the winter of 1951-1952. I was early in my fourth year, and few memories of that time are still visible through the mist. We must have been neighbors by then, but the Hammond family did not stay around town long – only a few years. From time to time over the six decades since those pictures were taken, I have often wondered what became of them, and on some occasions I tried, without success, to locate them.

Western Digital Type 500

The Western Digital Type 500 telephone first became available for consumer use in 1950. But, as with television, electric washing machines, and indoor restrooms, it took time for the Dial Phone to penetrate the small towns and sparsely populated areas of the northern Sierra Nevada mountains. Less dimly than The Big Snow, I remember the meeting all the town’s people attended in the elementary school cafeteria when the Dial Phone was introduced. It was around ‘56 or ‘57. I was older now, and just barely young enough still to enjoy the eight brightly colored tiny plastic telephones all the kids were given as a souvenir that night. There was one for every color in the rainbow, plus black and white. Like some modern weekly pill dispensers all senior citizens have in their cupboard, the phones came packaged in a clear plastic case with a removable lid so we could easily see them on display or take them out and play telephone games – pretending to talk to one another as if we weren’t in the same room. Not many years

hence, we played telephone for real, something we did as often as we could and a whole lot more than our moms and dads cared for. They cared even less when Tennyson called Venison. It was only ten miles, but incurred long-distance charges.

I guess I should tell the story about Tennyson and Venison, two homonymic, but otherwise unassociated words which, surely, have never been spoken in the same sentence in all the world, except by one humorous old-timer that night in the cafeteria, which yet carried the faint aroma of Mrs. Knapp’s tamale pie served at lunch time to all the kids at school. In truth, I really don’t know what was on the menu that day. The cafeteria smelled like tamale pie even on days when she didn’t cook tamale pie.

Bobby Kaufman and Richard Hammond
in our old Chevy at the WP Depot

When they first launched the dial system, the exchange numbers were TE2 for Portola and VE6 for the Graeagle area. On the dial, the prefixes were 832 and 836. Back then, the letters stood for something. The man who was giving the instructions said that TE stood for Tennyson. Just then the old guy in the back of the room stood up and in a heckling sort of way yelled, "What does VE stand for? Venison?" After a good laugh echoed through the cafeteria, the straight-faced presenter said the correct answer was “Vernon”. That name must have been thunk up by someone with very little sense of humor.

Western Electric
Antique Crank Phone

Before dial phones came to Portola, we only made crank phone calls.

“Number Please”. That’s what I heard each time I wanted to call Richard next door to see if he could play. To conjure the spirit in the box, I had to lift the earpiece, stand on my tiptoes, turn the crank on the brown wooden box that hung on the wall a foot or so above my head, and strain to speak into the mouthpiece to give the appropriate response. I do not remember ever getting a chair to make the task easier. Nevertheless, after completing the checklist, even this almost-five-year-old could wake the spirit from her slumber. It was always a woman with a somewhat nasal-sounding voice that answered my call. If I responded with the magic number: “2 9”, after a brief silence someone in the Hammond household would answer.

To connect to the home of “Little Bobby Kaufman” in the days of cranks and nasally operators, Richard would speak “2 2 2, please.” Soon after, the bell in the brown box on our wall would ring, and if it wasn’t wintertime, we would be playing in the yard faster than Superman could change in a phone booth. Although, I imagine that the picture of Richard and me standing on the snow in our front yard was taken some other day. Surely it was not the day I angered the spirit in the box, and by some miracle, lived to tell the story.

Calder and Richard Hammond
Joe Kaufman, in the Kaufman Yard
circa 1952

Before I learned to walk, it was easy to put my foot in my mouth, literally. Somewhere along the way it became possible to do so only metaphorically. By the time I was able to stretch and reach the crank, I was no longer capable of biting my own toe. I am best at metaphorical mouth stuffing and have trouble thinking what to say at times when I come under pressure. That day, when the imprisoned spirit asked: “Number please”, and I quickly responded, “2 2 2”, I had my first experience with a pressure situation and putting my foot in my mouth.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had given MY number, NOT Richard’s! Immediately I was flustered!

With those antiquated switchboards, whenever I turned the crank, a light flashed to alert the operator. She then would plug a cable into the jack for my line and ask for the secret code number. Once I spoke the number, she would plug another cable into the jack for Richard’s line. Soon we were talking to each other. Somewhat magically, our voices travelled through the wires down the street to the telephone office, through the switchboard and back to our homes. Given that we lived barely thirty feet apart, I think a couple tin cans and a long string would have worked just as well, and there would have been no spirits to anger along the way.

Eva Gufra and Barbara Applegate
At the Switchboard 1955
Bertha Miller Photo [1]

I expect the operator quickly noticed that 222 was busy, and that she could not plug another cable into that jack. I don’t recall what she said, but before she could finish, owing to my agitated state I blurted: “O shut up!” – quite loud actually – totally in character with my propensity for metaphorical mouth stuffing.

Not long after that incident, Calder and Richard moved away, and I never saw them again. But I always wondered where they went. This, then, is the rest of the story where I learned how closely connected our lives had been though we were completely unaware.

Occasionally, over the years I tried to locate Calder and Richard. When in Salt Lake City, I would look for Richard in the phone book. There were probably fifty Richard Hammonds in Salt Lake and the surrounding area. I never thought, even once, to look for Calder. Richards, like Bobs, are a dime a dozen, but Calder is priceless. In my life there has only ever been one Calder.

Sixty-five years or so after being grounded for sassing The Operator, COVID hit the world, and I was grounded once again. During a period of isolation late in May, I thought to search for Calder Hammond. Almost immediately, as if the operator had just plugged the cable into the jack for “2 9”, someone answered!

I searched for Calder Hammond on FamilySearch.org and I found him! He had passed through the second veil three years earlier, in 2017, and his information was now available to the public. One thing led to another and within two days I had corresponded with two of Calder’s daughters – and then, I was given a new magic number. I “turned the crank” on my mobile phone, punched in the ten-digit number, and Richard answered! I would have asked if he could come and play, but he lives seven hundred miles away. Instead, we reminisced about those carefree days in Portola, what little we could remember of them. It seems I had forgotten that we caught pollywogs together in the creek that ran in the gully behind our homes. Mom’s mason jars were good for more than just canning fruits and jams. We filled them with bug-infested creek water and pollywogs, added a few leaves and other green things. Then we put the jars on the porch. Before long, the pollywogs lost their tails, grew some legs, and little frogs were hopping out of those jars! I imagine that led to another grounding sentence. I was delighted to be talking to my long-lost playmate! Richard too, was tickled to have received a call from “Little Bobby Kaufman”.

 

The advent of social media has put tin cans in all our hands, and taut strings connect to other tin cans anywhere in the world. Richard and I could not have imagined such things when we were catching black, slippery, wiggly pollywogs in the creek. I have learned that we all share connections to others – kindred spirits, friends we never knew we had – others whose paths crossed ours, however briefly, perhaps long ago, or even long, long ago. In the end, I must confess that we are all brothers and sisters in more ways than we know.

I learned that Calder, his dear wife, and Richard all were members of the Tabernacle Choir for several years. A handful of times during those years, I sat in the Tabernacle on Temple Square and my childhood neighbors were in the choir seats, close enough to connect with tin cans and string. Their voices, combined with many others, produced that glorious music that I love dearly. There they were, right before me, in plain sight, and we were clueless. Two of Calder’s daughters, Carolyn and Melinda, are now members of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square, anxiously awaiting the day when they can sing again. I, like they, have been agonizing the loss of music and anxiously await its return. Until then, I look for them in every recording I watch, and rejoice when I see their faces in the Alto section.

Richard and Calder in front of The Little House
On Gulling Street, Portola, Summer2013

In the summer of 2013, while Calder was still able to travel, Calder, Richard, and their families visited Portola and Graeagle, places which “formed some of [their] happiest boyhood memories”. Among other places, they stopped at the top of Gulling Street on the north side of town and took a picture in front of The Little House. No more than a week later, Claire and I stayed several days in Portola, for the annual Alumni Picnic. Oh, how I wish we had been there just a few days earlier! As with everything else in town, those houses where we lived and played have changed significantly. But then … so have we.

John, Elliott, Don Kaufman and 
Cousin Jamie Kaufman in front of The Little House
Summer 1986

Ever so slowly, spring 2020 morphed into the hottest and driest summer on record for the Phoenix area. September came, and Claire and I were able to hit the road for Salt Lake City to escape the heat, to visit my niece, and hopefully to see some fall color. My discovery from late in the spring had almost slipped from my aging mind. Suddenly, somewhere on I-15 north of Cedar City, I remembered Richard! He lives in Salt Lake. I can see him! Soon, we had engineered a meeting for lunch a couple days later. It happened to be on my birthday. When we arrived at Little America, we found a private room full of the Hammond family!

What followed was a delightful couple of hours reminiscing, and visiting with friends we didn’t know we had – kindred spirits from a time before pollywog hunting, before The Big Snow, before crank phone calls, before all that. We talked about Portola, The Little House, music – the language of heaven, Calder’s bittersweet passing. We even enjoyed lunch and dessert … oh wait … we skipped dessert. 

Richard and Bob
September 14, 2020

It was a day of tender mercies. I felt the sentiment expressed by Juliet Ashton in her letter to “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”, one of our favorite movies:

“Without knowing it, I feel I’ve been searching for the old familiar faces for many years now, and can’t quite account for why I recognize them as yours. But I do.”

“Do you suppose it is possible for us to already belong to someone before we’ve met them? If so, then I belong to you, or you to me. Or me simply to the spirit I found among you…. That is as good a definition of family as any I know.”

That would have been reward enough for having waited over six decades to be reunited. But my joy was not yet complete. Before we set course for our separate ways, four present and former members of the Tabernacle Choir and the rest sang Happy Birthday to me, there in that banquet room in Little America! Few people can say they ever received such a birthday present.

To Richard and Suzanne, Joyce, Melinda, Carolyn and Derek, I will quote Juliet Ashton again.

“Thank you for sharing the story of your family with me, and for sharing [Calder]. Though I did not get to meet him [again] myself, I feel keenly how [his] life has changed the arc of my own forever, in ways I am only just beginning to discover.”

I went in search of childhood friends and found connections that extend much further back in time.

When Alma encountered the Sons of Mosiah after years of separation on their missionary journeys, what added to his joy was that they were still his brethren in the Lord. I expect Calder and my brother Joe had a joyful reunion a few years ago. Still, another reunion awaits somewhere down the road. I expect it will be without the use of cranks and dials – not even tin cans and string!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Footnotes:

[1] The image of the operator shows Barbara Applegate, mother of my classmate and old friend, Dave Applegate. I wonder if she might have been the "spirit in the box". It would be fun to think so.

This image was posted in 2008 on our PHS site at MyFamily.com by Carrie Neely, daughter of Bertha Miller. A friend, Dolores Schuetter, PHS class of 1961 posted this comment:  "I also remember the crank telephone on the wall in the kitchen. Whenever I needed my mom (at work) I would crank the phone and say: "I want to talk to my mom" and I would be connected. Also remember the party lines."

I expect "The Operator" knew a whole lot more about us kids than we knew about them.

 

Melinda, Joyce, Carolyn, Bob, Richard, Claire, Suzanne

Joyce, Melinda, Derek, Carolyn, Bob, Richard, Suzanne

LJ Hamby, My Grandpa by Bob Kaufman

 

Today I wish to wish to Light the World with this ray from my Family Tree.

#lighttheworld

Lewis Jehu Hamby, LJ Hamby as he was known on the Western Pacific Railroad, was my step-grandfather - the only grandpa I ever knew, and we always called him Lew.  Grandma and Lew lived in Oroville, California during the 50's when my conscious memories began. In the late 40’s, I was too young to remember much.

The California Zephyr in the Feather River Canyon
circa 1960. Photo by John Ryczkowski from his book:
My Western Pacific Railroad. Used with permission.

In his early days as a railroad man, Lew “boomed around” as the railroad men call it, from Alaska to South America. Eventually he settled down in Portola, California before moving to Oroville. Lew finished his career working on the Western Pacific Railroad.

Lew was a Conductor on the famed California Zephyr. He always looked sharp in his conductor's uniform. I remember riding the Vista Dome car through the Feather River Canyon. I think I got the dome seats because of Lew. Sometimes who you know really matters. Once, as the Zephyr was about to depart from the depot at Oroville heading back to Portola, he told me to watch out the window to see when the train began to move. He said the engineer was a master at starting so slowly that one could not feel the movement. He was right! We pulled out of the station without so much as a bump from the slack between the couplers. The first sounds I heard were the rhythmic clacks as the trucks passed over the rail joints.

Family Gathering at Grandma and Lew's home.
Standing: Grandma Hamby, John Kaufman, Wilda Kaufman
Bob Kaufman, Carol Folchi, (?), Lew Hamby.
Front row: (?), Linda Mae Hamby, Jolene Folchi, Daryl Folchi

Many, and warm are my memories of visiting Grandma and Lew in Oroville. In our relatively small family circle, Lew was famous for his pancake-eating prowess … but that’s another story. He had a duck pond surrounded by several tall shade trees, a corn patch beside the house, tall oak trees – perfect for little boys to climb – on the south edge of his “farm”, and a smile that would warm my heart every time I saw him. I do not remember any other expression on his face. His natural speaking voice was high in the tenor range, a bit raspy, but music to my ears.

I can still hear the rustling leaves of those shade trees when a warm breeze happened by and the trickling sound of the creek water as if fell into the pond from a small culvert covered by a wooden footbridge. We didn’t swim in the pond. It was a bit mossy and fouled by the ducks – and it smelled a little! Apparently, one hot, late-summer Oroville day, I passed out helping to pull dried stalks in the corn patch. I remember waking up on the couch with a cold, wet towel on my forehead.

LJ Hamby on his last trip as a Conductor on the California Zephyr
January 31, 1958, Portola, California.
Shaking hands with Engineer Fuller.

In recognition for one of many kind deeds to his fellowmen, at the time of his retirement in 1958, Lew received a letter from the State of California Governor, Goodwin J. Knight, thanking him for the kindness he showed the Governor while riding the Zephyr.

As the story goes, the Governor was traveling to the Feather River Inn, a dozen miles west of Portola. Since Portola was the only scheduled stop, he wondered how we would get to the Inn. Lew told the Governor not to worry – he would get him to the Inn. When the Zephyr reached the crossing at Mohawk, just a short distance from the Inn, Lew stopped the train and Governor Knight got off. Sometimes, who you know matters, even when you’re the Governor! Everyone who knew Lew Hamby was blessed by his kindness.

In the days when my heroes were the likes of Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, and Chuck Yeager, Lew Hamby was top on my list!

There But for Grace, (The Final Flight of Pace 38) In Memory of 2nd Lt. William J. Stone, by Bob Kaufman

The night sky was pitch dark, moonless, and overcast. Monsoon thunderstorms surrounded the valley. To the east and north of Phoenix and adjacent cities, ominous storms were building and coming our way. The darkness was pierced, rather frequently, by lightning. Our weather briefings sometimes contained the code: “LTGCCCG” which is translated to mean: “Lightning Cloud - to - Cloud, Cloud - to - Ground”. Monday, July 26, 1971, was that kind of night, a typical mid-summer night in the Valley of the Sun. But moments before 11 PM, it all changed, as if a lightning bolt had struck right beside me!

At 2234 MST (10:34PM, Mountain Standard Time), 2nd Lt. William Stone advanced the throttles to the wall, lighting the afterburners of his T-38 jet trainer and accelerated for takeoff from runway 30C at Williams AFB on his initial night solo flight. Because of the thunderstorms, solo students were prohibited from flying in the practice areas over the mountains east of the base. Instead, Lt. Stone, and about 20 other student pilots flying the same mission, received radar vectors from Phoenix Approach Control to “High X-Ray”, the pattern entry point, 3 miles southeast of the approach end of the runway at 4600 feet altitude, geographically just east of the town of Queen Creek, Arizona.

For the next 24 minutes, Lt. Stone flew a rectangular pattern over the base, 1500 feet above the normal pattern. The purpose was to burn 1300 lbs. of jet fuel, reducing the aircraft weight making it safer for practice landings. A fully loaded T-38 carries 3800 lbs. of fuel, making the total aircraft weight over 11000 lbs. at takeoff. Although light by military jet standards, the T-38 demanded careful attention for safe flight, especially when attempting to land “heavy weight”. For safety reasons, solo students were prohibited from landing with more than 2500 lbs. of fuel except in an emergency.

With both the high and normal patterns operating, the beehive was buzzing, as were the radio channels. One could barely get a word in edgewise. 

At 2257:45 MST, an unidentified aircraft called Rum Dum, “Outside downwind breaking out”.  Radio transcripts show that for the next 45 seconds, Phoenix Approach was busy in conversations with other aircraft. Rum Dum was the call sign for the Runway Supervisory Unit (RSU) located at the approach end of the runway, staffed by qualified instructor pilots who observed all pattern activity to improve flight safety.

At 2258:30 MST, Lt. Stone, call sign “Pace 38” (spoken as “Pace Three Eight”), having exited the high pattern and having turned northeast to a heading of 030 (“zero three zero”) degrees, radioed: “Phoenix Approach Control – Pace 38 – pattern breakout, request X-Ray”. Because of the radio chatter, Phoenix did not respond to his call. One minute later, traveling in nearly level flight at an estimated speed of 280 Knots, Lt. Stone’s aircraft crashed into the side of a vertical rock face in the Superstition Mountains a short distance from the prominent Flat Iron.  The impact occurred at 4570 feet, about 50 feet below the peak at that location.  The aircraft disintegrated upon impact and Lt. Stone was killed instantly.

Radio call signs for every training mission at Willie were a combination of a key word and a two-digit number. Key words such as Oslo, AWOL, Pace, and Vest were assigned to formation, instrument, cross country, and other flights. The two-digit number corresponded to the scheduled takeoff time. Pace 38 was scheduled for 2238 (10:38 PM). Lt. Stone was the last solo on the schedule board. Others were scheduled at three minute intervals prior to his time.

That night, I was Pace 32.

Just one minute and thirty seconds prior to Lt. Stone’s last radio call, I made an almost identical call to Phoenix Approach Control – different only by the numbers of my call sign. Before the controller could respond to my call, Cram 02, another aircraft radioed Phoenix requesting instructions.  Within a few seconds the controller responded: “Zero Two Standby / Pace 32 squawk ident zero four zero zero.”  Following his instructions, I pushed a button on my transponder causing the image of my aircraft to stand out on his radar screen. Immediately the controller returned: “Okay 32, radar contact, turn right heading 120.” In the next few minutes, I received additional instructions that took me to “X-Ray”, the entry point to the normal traffic pattern at 3100 feet altitude. I had just completed a right turn to the base leg of the traffic pattern when I looked to my right and observed an explosion and huge fireball in the distance.

The highest point in the Superstition Mountains is a little over 5000 feet elevation. I was a mountain boy from Northern California, and a little 5000-foot hill just did not seem like much of an obstacle to me. On our usual departure to the east, we flew several thousand feet above it and I simply never gave it much thought. The next morning when I drove to the base on Williams Field Road, that mountain looked to me like Mt. Everest!

For a long time afterward, I reviewed over and over in my mind what I had done the night before and wondered: “what would I have done if I had not received that response from Phoenix Approach?” I cannot say with certainty that I would have recognized the danger and turned to a safe heading on my own without instruction from Phoenix.  I have often thought: “There, but for the grace of God, go I”.

For ten and a half months, Bill Stone and I and thirty-three other student pilots in the John Black/Beercan flight of Willie class 72-02 did everything together. We sat in all the same classrooms, studied aerodynamics, aerospace physiology, weather, and principles of flight together. We even endured a week-long defensive driving course before they ever let us touch an airplane. We sat with a buddy in the high-altitude chamber and watched each other ride the Barany Chair. From those somewhat humorous experiences, we witnessed the effects of rapid cabin decompression, oxygen deprivation, and spatial disorientation. We chuckled as the other guy’s fingers and lips turned blue, and within seconds, he could not write his own name. My now nameless companion failed at 95 while trying to count backward from 100. We laughed as we watched the other guys try to sit up straight after several revolutions in the chair. They looked like they had just spent the night at the bar in the Officers Club. Despite the humor, aerospace physiology was serious business. Our lives depended on understanding the hostile environment we had entered.

We watched each other literally get our butts kicked when we squeezed the triggers of the ejection seat in the Boom Bucket. One by one, we were pulled behind a speeding pickup truck and sailed up in the air 300 feet on a “parasail”, then banged our knees on the desert floor at the Rittenhouse Auxiliary when we tried to practice the parachute landing fall (PLF – in the military, everything has an acronym). That parasail was just a regular parachute with a couple of panels removed “for stability”. What it really did was increase our rate of fall as we descended to the concrete desert floor.

Physical conditioning was a necessity. Frequent exposure to five G’s in a high-performance jet was physically demanding. We ran the mile and a half, three or four times a week and did a hundred other things to earn the coveted wings of a United States Air Force pilot.

One by one, as we each returned safely from our initial solo in the T-37, we took off our boots, and were summarily dispatched to the dunk tank by the rest of the gang. My first solo in the T-38 was a thrill I will never forget … but that’s another story.

(In this picture: 2nd Lieutenants all - Angelo John, left, Rich Martindell, Ed Morrow, Robert Swanson, Frank Zazula, and me, of course.)

In all that time together, I only have one other memory of Bill Stone. One afternoon on the track, as we were nearing the end of a run, he appeared out of nowhere and zoomed past me like he had just lit his afterburners. I finished that race eating his dust!

Every day, when we went to the academics building, we passed a display case showing each of our names and a shiny pair of wings above each name. It was a sad day when the name of William J. Stone was removed from that case.

As a result of the accident and the investigation that followed, local flight procedures where soon changed. A new pattern breakout heading was given so that we weren’t heading directly at the mountains, and we were instructed that if approach control did not respond by the time we reached the highway from Apache Junction to Florence Junction, we were to turn right to a heading of 120 degrees which would keep us a safe distance from the mountains.

For over forty years I had thought the location of this crash was forgotten and unknown.  Prompted by
the tragic crash of a civilian aircraft the night before Thanksgiving, 2011, I searched the internet and discovered photos taken in the past few years showing debris from Lt. Stone’s aircraft located near the trail to the Flat Iron in the Superstition Mountains above the Siphon Draw Trail.  The 2011 crash site is just a few hundred yards away.

Since that time, I have scaled the mountain twice (edit: as of 2015, five times) to visit the site where my classmate perished.  I hope one day to place a plaque at the site in honor of my fallen comrade.

My first experience witnessing the Air Force Missing Man formation was later that week as a Memorial Service was held for Lt. Stone at the chapel on Williams AFB. Rest in peace, Stone. We, the students of Willie class 72-02 will never forget you.

 

Radio Call Transcript

The transcript of the radio conversations that night indicate that Pace 38 and Cram 02 were in the same general location at the time Lt. Stone executed his pattern breakout and that the overworked controller apparently confused the two aircraft.  (Cram 02 was a “control ship” with a qualified instructor pilot onboard.  Regulations required a qualified pilot to be airborne at all times when student pilots were flying solo.  Cram 02 was the lead control ship which took off before the solo students.  He was nearing the completion of his mission.  Cram 47 was the trailing control ship which took off after Lt. Stone.  All solo students had a Pace call sign.)

Time	Position	Message
22:56:45	Pace 32	Phoenix, Pace Three Two pattern breakout request vec ah vectors to X-Ray
22:56:50	Cram 02	Phoenix Approach, Cram Zero Two missed approach and ah sounds like our other control ship is getting airborne.  This time request X-Ray.
22:56:55
22:57:00	Phx R5	Zero Two standby / Pace Three Two squawk ident Zero Four Zero Zero
22:57:05	Pace 32	Pace Three Two squawking
22:57:05	Phx R5	Okay Three Two radar contact turn right heading One Two Zero
22:57:10	Pace 32	Pace Three Two (Repeating the call sign is an acknowledgment of the instruction)
22:57:15	Phx R5	Pace Three Five ah heading ah --- Pace Three ah Five what’s your heading
22:57:20	Pace 35	Three Five heading One Two Zero
22:57:20	Phx R5	Okay
22:57:25	Cram 47	Phoenix Departure Control Cram Four Seven climbing to block above Willy
22:57:30
22:57:35	Phx R5	Four Seven radar contact
22:57:35	Phx R5	Two Nine descend and maintain Four Thousand Six Hundred and an continue Two One Zero
22:57:45	Pace 29	Pace Two Nine
22:57:50	Phx R5	Three Two squawk ident
22:57:55	Phx R5	Okay Three Five squawk ident (At this point it appears the controller is having issues keeping track of the aircraft. The ident feature in the transponder sends a signal to his radar system causing the image to be highlighted, allowing the controller to positively identify the aircraft in question.)
22:58:00	Pace 35	Three Five
22:58:05	Phx R5	Okay
22:58:10	Phx R5	Three Five turn right heading ah Two One Zero
22:58:15	Pace 35	Pace Three Five
22:58:20	Phx R5	Three Five descend and maintain Four Thousand Six Hundred
22:58:20	Pace 29	Pace Two Nine is heading Two One
22:58:25	Phx R5	Two Nine turn right inbound to X-Ray squawk standby (Standby causes the image to disappear from his screen.)
22:58:25	Pace 29	Pace Two Nine
22:58:30	Pace 38	Phoenix Approach, Pace Three Eight pattern breakout request X-Ray
22:58:35	Phx R5	Cram Zero Two turn right heading One Five Zero and squawk ident, maintain Six Thousand (Phoenix did not respond to Pace 38 – a heading of 120 is parallel to the runway.  Phoenix gave the instruction of 150 because he must have thought Cram 02 was too far to the east and needed a heading to take him back to the proper flight path)
22:58:40	Cram 02	Cram Zero Two
22:58:45
22:58:50	Phx R5	Pace Three Two maintain FiveThousand vector to High X-Ray
22:58:55	Pace 32	Ah Pace Three Two wants to go to X-Ray (not High X-Ray – the same point on the ground, but at 4600 feet and 3100 feet respectively)
	Phx R5	Okay you’ll be a vector to X-Ray – Pace Three Five turn right heading Two Five Zero to intercept the One One Six radial to X-Ray, Squawk standby and Rumdum.
22:59:00
22:59:05	Pace 35	Pace Three Five
22:59:10	Phx R5	Pace Three Two turn right heading Two One Zero, descend and maintain Three Thousand One Hundred
	Pace 32	Pace Three Two (acknowledged)
22:59:15	Phx R5	Cram Zero Two turn right heading One Eight Zero (This is crucial.  I believe the controller actually saw the image of Pace 38 and thought is was Cram 02.  This heading is an even greater correction back toward the traffic pattern than the one given 40 seconds earlier.)
22:59:20	Cram 02	Cram Zero Two
22:59:25	Phx R5	And Pace Four Seven ah squawk ident Zero Four Zero Zero (this is a mistake, his call sign was Cram 47 – not a major error, but indicates the controller was swamped.)
22:59:30	Phx R5	Pace Four Seven radar contact turn right heading One Four Zero, climb and maintain Six Thousand
22:59:35		(this is when I believe the crash of Pace 38 occurred as evidenced by the next radio calls)
22:59:40	Phx R5	Cram Zero Two Phoenix (The controller did not give any instructions. This indicates that he wants the aircraft to respond.)
	Cram 02	Zero Two go (meaning, I’m here, what do you want?)
22:59:45	Phx R5	Okay check your transponder, we just lost it, code Zero Four Zero Zero and ident (clearly something had just occurred to cause the image to disappear.)
22:59:50	Phx R2	When you can ah standby talk to Cram Zero Two and send him to channel twelve for (unintelligible) (R2, I suspect was a supervisor – channel twelve was the direct channel to T38 operations at Williams to be used by the control aircraft for special circumstances)
22:59:55
23:00:00	Phx R5	He’s going to Rumdum (unintelligible) (Rumdum was the runway supervisory unit at the base – manned by instructor pilots for pattern traffic control)
23:00:10	Cram 47	Ah Phoenix ah you might want to check with Rumdum, it looks like we may have had an aircraft impact out here

The T-38 Traffic Pattern at Williams AFB for traffic to runway 30.

With the help of a young friend, I finally made it to the top of the Flat Iron in 2015.
Stone's aircraft hit the rock cliff off my right shoulder (viewer's left).

The blackened rock face top center was the impact point of the civilian aircraft in 2011. Stone's aircraft impacted the large rock face to the left and below as he was traveling from right to left in this image. Debris fell into the draw roughly 500 feet below the point of impact.