My cousins, Shirley Schulthess, Mikey and Phyllis Cassidy, playing with me (The last four pictures were taken at Grandma Foote’s home in Provo.) Grandpa John Anderson, taken while on his second mission in Sweden Mother was a nurse and was a great blessing to Grandpa.  He said, “The Lord sent her here, for she is so good to me.” We lived in Grandpa Anderson’s home, moving back and forth from Salina to Provo twice during my fifth and sixth grade years. For approximately six months during this time, Daddy worked on roads below the Deer Creek Dam up Provo Canyon.  He was a foreman for the Whiting Company building roads, which took us on two amazing mountain adventures, one when I was six at Big Cottonwood Canyon, and one when I was ten years old at Red Canyon (near Bryce Canyon). We didn’t own a car, so while he worked by the dam up Provo Canyon, Daddy could only visit us when he could catch a ride with someone.  While in Provo, we lived in the old Foote home with Grandma Foote and Uncle Mark during the first half of my fifth grade year (Joaquin School) and then back to Salina the last half of that year.  Then we moved back to Provo again for my sixth grade year and stayed through my freshman (9th grade) year at Farrer Jr. High School. (Farrer was demolished in 2010 to make room for a new grade school where some of my great grandchildren will attend beginning in 2011).  The war had broken out on December 7, 1941 when I was ten years old.  At some point, after working for the Whiting Company, Daddy went to work on the construction of Geneva Steel Plant in Provo where he operated a jackhammer.  After working hard all day, he would get on the bus, so very tired, find himself a seat, then a woman would get on the very full bus and, being the gentleman that he was, he would give up his seat to her, the only one to do so, and stand for the ride home.  He worked there until the war was over in 1945, which was the end of my 9th grade year, when we moved back to Salina.  Daddy hated the environment at Geneva Steel but he loved the farm. During the time period that Daddy worked at Geneva Steel, we lived in an upstairs apartment of a home on 8th East near 2nd North.   After Uncle Orson died (my grandmother’s brother), we moved from the apartment into his home, which was located on the corner of 6th East and 2nd North in Provo.  An older picture of Grandpa John My handsome dad, Alma Adolph Anderson My smiley, happy dad, when he was younger After Grandma Foote died, our family moved in with Uncle Mark in the old Foote home at 672 East 2nd North.  We lived in the Foote home until the summer after my freshman year when we moved back to Salina.  We stayed in Salina until Daddy died in the summer of 1947.  I was sixteen years old.  Then we moved back to Provo, where I spent my last school year at BY High School.  We never again moved back to Salina.     Salina was my hometown, even though I didn’t always like to admit that fact to those not having been born there, it being a small, rather wild town.  At least I thought it was.  Daddy used to say the Gadianton Robbers lived in the hills around Salina and their evil spirits still haunted the town.  That was my impression as a child because there was a fair amount of drinking by the residents, and swearing was common.   Looking back as an adult, I found I had had a happy childhood.  Let me tell you about my childhood.  I will start by taking you through my Grandpa’s home, my home, room by room.  Each room remembered brings memories flooding back to me. My home—Grandpa Anderson’s home—east, front side The old home had new siding.  This is the indented corner, northeast side, where Mother grew huge pansies.  The pantry window has been covered up and a cooler sits in the kitchen window. I did my best to draw a map of our downstairs. The Kitchen:  Here skill and science do  Their part In life’s most fundamental     Art. Grandpa had added the kitchen onto the original structure.  A window was set on the north side of the room.  The coal stove was near the east wall, leaving at least two feet from the wall to the back of the stove so the wall wouldn’t blister.  It was near the north window.  On the west was another window, the kitchen table sitting in front of it, with a clean oil-covered cloth covering it.  South of the table was the sink.  My first memory was of one faucet with cold water.  Later a hot water faucet was added.  Next to the sink and on the south side of the room stood a wonderful cupboard; part of it was metal where flour could be poured into a bin then sifted into a bowl.  Shelves and drawers were also strategically placed in the cupboard.  This cupboard was like many cupboards of the day, built commercially and with wheels.  Oh, so clever, it took the place of regular cupboards hanging on the wall.  Next to this mobile cupboard, which seemed to have shifted around now and then in the room, as well as the color of the cupboard—sometimes blue, sometimes white—was the outside kitchen door, which had a screen, leading to a covered wooden porch.  The screen door had a squeak in it and always slammed, no matter how careful you thought you were being (as a child).  I think of it now and feel comforted; it had such a “lived in” sound as it slammed closed. The outside kitchen door had a window in it.  Windows are a great delight to me, but this window could also cause me great discomfort.  Saturdays were usually bath days.  The #2 or #3 round, galvanized tub was brought into the middle of the kitchen floor and filled with warm water, ready for baths.  I never lingered over that bath, and that awful kitchen window no longer looked friendly; it had to be covered with newspaper and the kitchen door locked!  I had fears of someone, possibly one of the Bird children, coming to that door, the lock failing, and them seeing me in my birthday suit!  I still shudder when I remember how tense I was during that bath.  In case you think we didn’t clean ourselves during the week, let me clear that up. Mother would give us what we called “spit baths.” She would get a warm washcloth and wash us all over some time during the week.  Hands were washed often under my mother’s stern eye.  Next to the outside door on the east side of the room was a swinging door, usually held open by a latch hooked to the wall.  This door led into the dining room. The kitchen was my mother’s domain.  Everything in the kitchen was clean.  One time a mouse ran across the floor when mother was sitting by the stove. She grabbed the poker and threw it at that unclean mouse, and to our great delight, knocked it dead! My sister, Jean, and I would wake each morning to the aroma of coffee and the sound of burned toast being scraped.  It seemed to be an art with mother to burn the toast every morning.  When we complained, we were told it would make our hair curly, and of course we wanted curly hair so we ate the burned toast.  Over the years I have found I like most things crisp, such as cookies and toast.  Jean has the same preference.  Mother trained us well.  Even though Mother and Dad drank coffee, we were never allowed to touch it. The only coffee I have ever tasted has been in Mother’s mocha frosting and an ice cream cone I had in Hawaii on the coffee-growing Big Island.  It was so strong I had to throw it away.  In that case, Do as we say, not do as we do, worked for me.  The coal stove was a central part of the kitchen.  Baked in that oven had been bread, pies, cookies, muffins, rice pudding, carrot pudding, tapioca pudding, chicken, turkey, and other delights.  We also had tomatoes and onions cooked on top of the stove as well as liver and onions.  Both of those dished smelled so good but tasted so horrible to me.  The liver always looked so beautiful and tempting that I would try a tiny bit and then gag and gag.  Mother also made macaroni and cheese, another dish I could never abide.  Once when we ate at my Aunt Alvilda’s (she could cream vegetables like no one I have ever known), she served macaroni and cheese.  I whispered in Mother’s ear and said, “If you make me eat that, I will throw up.”  Mother was embarrassed and told me I had to try it. I did, and I did throw up!  That really was embarrassing for us both.  Terrible memory.  My ability to smell everything acutely has been both a blessing and a curse to me throughout my life. A practical use of the stove was to put the clothes iron on top to heat up.  We didn’t have an iron that heated with electricity in those early days.  Keeping house, cleaning, and washing and caring for clothes was not easy! In the winter, the oven door was let down when Jean and I would come dragging home from school, having walked five cold, snow-covered blocks.  Our stockings would be wet, in spite of the shoes and galoshes we were wearing.  We must have wandered into some deep ditches now and then because of the extra snow and water that had to be shaken from the galoshes and wet shoes.  Steam drifted up from the shoes set on the oven door along with our oh, so cold feet!  How absolutely wonderful that heat felt!  We would put our feet on the oven door, as far in towards the warm oven as we dared without getting burned.  I cannot remember what was placed on the oven door to keep us from getting burned.  I just remember the relief in being in our warm home, in our cozy kitchen, Mother close by and school over for the day. I love this picture of Mother laughing. Everyone loved to hear Mother laugh. Our stove wasn’t quite this grand, but it was similar.