World War II and Teenage Years

     When I was eleven years old, our cousin Blaine Olsen came to live with us who was my age and was raised as a brother. We were very close, drove tractors together our whole lives and played on the same baseball team in High School. 

     My two youngest siblings were born much later. Verl came next in 1943 when I was 14 years old. I remember well the day that I was out riding a tractor when word came that Verl had just been born. It was delightful to have a little baby around. My youngest sister Peggy was born ten years later in February, 1953, when my mother was 47 years old and just a few months before our oldest daughter Amy was born. 

     When in Junior High School, we rode on the least fancy school bus in the fleet.  It was built like a long rectangular box.  Heat was provided by the large exhaust pipe that ran down the entire center of the bus.  We sat along the sides.  Along the way, we would “match pennies” to while away the time.  Later, we were attracted by “Penny-ante” poker.  We played “Twenty-one.”  For me, I really enjoyed the game.  Things went along pretty well until one night over at the Sparks’ home, David, Blaine, Wade (much younger), and I engaged in a pleasant game.  Unfortunately for us, Wade lost.  He was upset and reported the consequences to my folks.  I will never forget the next morning at six when Dad came to call us to do the chores.  He said, “I hear that you boys have been gambling.”  (I thought it had just been that we were playing poker.)  Then, more strongly that I had ever heard him speak to us, he said, “Well, if I ever hear of you gambling again, you can rest assured that there will be no support for you in college or on your missions!”  I knew he meant it and that ended my gambling career. 

     I learned later that Dad knew of people in his town of Central, Idaho (near Grace) who had lost their farms while gambling playing cards.  A few years later, while in high school, I learned that Bill McCune had bet his Ford Motor business against Bowden’s fanciest new home in town.  He, Bowden, was the manager of the First Security Bank in Preston.  Bill McCune won the bet and I remember their moving into the lovely home and the Bowdens moving into an apartment above the bank building on Main Street in Preston.

     When I was in junior high in the seventh grade and Mr. Cutler, our mathematics teacher, asked me what my name was, I said, “Junior Christensen.” (Which is what everyone called me in Banida.)  “OK, June Bugs.”  And, that nick name stuck.  From then on throughout high school, my friends called me “Bugs.”  Strange, and not too attractive, but that is what happened.

     While in high school, I really enjoyed seminary.  I took all three years from Ernest Eberhard who became, next to my parents, as influential as anyone in my life up to that time.  I liked him as a teacher and also the fact that he had been a pitcher on the baseball team when he was younger.  He came to our home baseball games and cheered us on.  Preston High School, under the influence of Horland Simmons, our principal, developed a baseball team for the first time in my junior year 1944-45.  I was really happy to be able to play on the team, first as a fielder and then as one of the pitchers.  Coach Simmons arranged for our practices to be at noon through our gym period at 1:00 to 2:00 PM thus enabling us to play and still get home for chores and work on the farm.

     My cousin, Blaine was the first-string pitcher and I was the lead-off batter and played in center field. Then, when they could use a left-hander, I traded him places with him as pitcher.  In Banida, whenever there was a break in the work, or even on Sundays between meetings, we seemed to feel OK about a little Sunday ball since there weren’t many opportunities for such during the week with work on the farm, chores and such.  We did a lot of ball playing of one kind or another.  We would pitch to each other.  I was pleased that we both “lettered” in the sport for two years at Preston High.

     Our baseball team won the district championship in the 1945-46 and went on to the state tournament in Boise, Idaho to play against Boise, Twin Falls and Lewiston High School teams.  Since it was right after World War II had ended and cars were once again available to the public, Dad had bought a new Ford sedan and Coach Simmons asked if he would transport part of the team to Boise.  He agreed and I anticipated playing with Dad in the stands for the first time ever to see a game.  Our first game was against Twin Falls and I was playing in the field and Blaine was pitching.  We lost the game 7-1.  The next night in the Boise Pilots semi-professional baseball park, we were scheduled to play our second game against Lewiston, Idaho.  I was scheduled to start as pitcher and it would be the first time that Dad had seen me in that role.  We discovered that for several reasons we were facing some real competition.  Lewiston, Idaho is located on the banks Snake River about at sea level and they were able to play and practice almost any month of the year.  In Preston, obviously, that is not the case.

     Somehow, we managed to put out the first three hitters on their team in the first inning.  At the beginning of the second inning, their “clean-up hitter” came to the plate.  The first three balls I pitched to him he hit foul balls out of the park—and this was a professional baseball park.  I knew that I was in trouble.  Blaine came in to replace me and I went out to center field.  The only redeeming feature in the entire game was that I hit a double, drove in one run and was able to score the only other run we made in the game.  At the end of the inning, it was a long walk to the dugout to sit down by Dad who was there with the coach.  Dad put his arm around me and in his quiet way let me know that he still loved me anyway.  I appreciated that.

     During one summer,whenever it rained or we could find some spare minutes, Blaine and I began building a Solomon’s Island Outrigger canoe.  We found the plans in The Boy’s Life magazine. What a project!  We finished on a Saturday night and were very anxious to try it out and see if it really would float.  We decided that if we got up a little earlier, right after chores and before Priesthood meeting we could load it on the back of the pick-up and rush up to Taylor’s reservoir, (which no longer exists) north of Banida and try it out.  Our plans were to be back in time to get ready for our meetings.  Back in those days, we would have Priesthood meeting and then Sunday School which included 2 ½ minute talks, hymn practice, the sacrament and classes.

     It was a beautiful day.  We got the canoe out into the water and began paddling around.  It floated!  We were really proud of the accomplishment.  What surprised us was that after what seemed like a very short time, we looked up and saw that the sun was right above us.  It was near noon and for the first time I remember, we had willingly missed Church.  In Banida, our ward was like a family and there were few who didn’t show up for the meetings.  I was concerned about what the folks, the Bishop and others would think of our not being there. 

     We quickly loaded the canoe and rushed home.  Sheepishly, we came into the house.  Mom was finished getting lunch ready and Dad was in the front room.  I will never forget my Dad’s response.  All he said was, “Well, we missed you boys at Church.”  Period.  In a very simple and yet profound way, he taught me a great lesson.  I learned that going to Church was my personal decision and that if we didn’t participate, at least we would be missed.  Attending Church was not because of pressure from Dad and Mom, but rather, it was a personal decision and I was not forced to be there.  Attending to Church responsibilities has been a lot more meaningful to me from that time on.

     Dad was not a hunter nor a fisherman.  He did know how to shoot the .22 rifle and was a very good shot.  Because of the damage to the crops that some vermin would do, he “hired” me, when I was about 11 or 12, to hunt and/or trap squirrels and rock chucks for bounty.  He paid one cent for each squirrel’s tail and five cents for a rock chuck tail.  I learned to love to hunt and shoot the .22 single-shot rifle and prided myself in being fairly accurate.  With the "Banida Bums," the eight local friends, we did quite a bit of squirrel, rock chuck and rabbit hunting in the hollows and hills north and east of Banida and the hollows in Winder.  When we spotted a rock chuck, we developed a plan to all aim at the same time and then say, “Ready, aim, fire!”  Our chances for at least one of us hitting the mark were greatly increased and through our group effort, we rarely missed.

     By the time I graduated from high school, I had only been hunting deer once.  Uncle Hugh J. Geddes had to be one of the best hunters and fishermen in the town.  He could see fish in a stream where I couldn’t see anything but running water.  He was kind enough to invite me to go deer hunting with him and a group of others who already had gone earlier and bagged their limit. 

     I remember well the early morning up in “Cottonwood” canyon.  The others had fanned out in different directions and Uncle Hugh J. had loaned me his .300 Savage rifle which I had never shot once up to that time.  We were hiking east toward the sun as it was just coming up over the horizon.  All of a sudden, Uncle Hugh said, “There they are!”  Until he pointed them out, I hadn’t seen them.  I aimed and shot.  He said, “You got him!”  The group moved a little to the right and I shot again.  He said, “You got him, too!”  Then they started to run and I fired again. Without any censoring, he said, “By hell, you got him too!”  Three shots, three deer and fortunately there were enough permission tags in the group to legally tag them all.  I have always been grateful that I had a witness with me to tell the tale.

     After a long day on the harvester or hauling hay, it was not uncommon for us to make the trip to Twin Lakes for a swim.  When I think of it, it was not the smartest thing we ever did when we challenged ourselves to swim the length of the dam on the west and deepest end of the reservoir.  What was it, a least a half a mile?  There were of course no life guards, safety vests, or anyone around to pull us out if we suffered a stomach cramp or whatever.  Frankly, looking back, we did quite a few things that weren’t too smart.  For example, one day, to test our accuracy, we would put one of those licorice flavored all-day sucker sticks between our teeth with the licorice candy end sticking out and then, from about ten or fifteen feet away, see if we could hit the candied end shooting with our B-B guns.  No, not too smart.  Fortunately, there were no eyes injured or lost in the process.

     Along with the boys, there were several Banida girls with whom we had a lot of good fun.  Betty Bell, Clarice Cole, Valene Geddes and Beverly Miles were among them.  They were great girls—the “Local Yokels” as we called them.  We had parties, dances and outings along the way.  They were like sisters to us and the only ones that became seriously, romantically inclined to the point of marriage, were Blaine Olsen and Beverly Miles, who incidentally were my first cousins on the Miles and Christensen sides of my family.
     Dad was a mild-mannered man. He never laid a hand on me in anger or in a disciplinary way. He did on one occasion give me a boost with the side of his shoe. This is how it happened: Dad had gone to Preston on some business or another. I was to herd the cows and be sure they did not get into the "South Ten" field of grain which had just been irrigated. As time went on, some friends came over and we became distracted with some games and playing around with some of the pigs in the pen. We were having a great time focusing on the pigs. Then Dad came up behind us and let me know that the whole herd of cows was up to their ankles in mud in the wheat field in the South Ten. He said: "Sonny, I thought I could trust you." That really stung. He turned his shoe sideways and gave me a boost, helping me on my way to get the cows out of what remained of the crop. That was the only occasion where Dad ever touched me physically in a disciplinary way.

     I decided then, that in my life I would like to be able to be trusted with whatever assignment I was given. I think of the statement by President David O. McKay, "It is better to be trusted than to be loved." It is nice when we can receive both trust and love. 

Banida, Idaho - Early Years

The first child to be born to Mom and Dad was Coy Echo, who was born June 17, 1925.  Four years later, on July 21, 1929, I came into the world and as far as I know, this is the first, and only, picture I know that exists of those infant years.

     I was born at the home of my maternal grandparents, Jeddie and Amelia Almira Smith Miles, in the yellow brick house. My official name when I was blessed was/is Joe Junior Christensen.  Dad’s name was Joseph Amos Christensen.  Rather than naming me that with a “Jr.” on the end, they decided, as my mother reportedly said, “They will call him Joe anyway, so let’s just name him “Joe Junior.”  That is what happened and so the name has been a bit of a challenge throughout my life, particularly in the military. The Miles home seemed like a palace to me.  They even had indoor plumbing, bathtub, restroom, etc.  I loved to be there.  My grandparents, aunts and uncles all made me feel like I was something special.  I think they had a tendency to make everyone feel that way. 

     There must have been some kind of bonding that occurred because I always loved to be there.  Among my earliest memories were scampering to hide under the bed in my grandparents bedroom when my folks would come to take me home.  It was a place where I always felt that I was loved.  My grandmother’s cooking was always delicious and there were books to read.  Among the books I learned to love was one that told the stories of the Old Testament at a level that children could understand.  Stories of David and Goliath, and Joseph being sold into Egypt were among my favorites.

     The absolutely first and earliest memory of my life occurred down at Stewart and Vanona Geddes’s home.  Vaguely, I can remember the little black and white puppy that my sister, Coy, who was four years older than I, chose from the litter which would become “Boots” by name and a very important part of our family.

     My parents, Joseph Amos and Goldie Miles Christensen, owned and operated the only store in town.  It was a combination general store, gasoline station with one gas pump in front and the post office inside.  It was located on the northwest corner of the intersection of the town’s roads that led west to Coulam and east past Harold Larsen’s to what became Highway 91 that went south to Preston and north to Swan Lake, Downey and on to Pocatello. 
     During my earliest years, when I was three of four, Dad, Joseph A. Christensen, was the Bishop of the ward.  (He served for nine years and before had been a counselor to my Grandfather Jeddie LeRoy Miles.)  I felt very important that I would be sitting on the stand with him during our meetings in the ward.  Dad called me his “third counselor.”  It was a disappointment to me when we had a ward conference and all of the officers’ names were read for a sustaining vote and they somehow omitted reading my name as one of the counselors.  What I didn’t know at the time was that my mother, Goldie, was not in good health.  She suffered from rheumatic fever when she was very young and it had left her with an impaired heart and lungs.  She was always embarrassed in public by the chronic cough she developed as a result. 
     At that time, when I was serving as “third counselor,” she delivered my younger brother, Wade.  Her health was such that much of the care for Wade in his first months was provided by Aunts Sarah or Jane Miles.  Later, while I was on my mission to Mexico, I learned that Mom had about died.  I never knew it because she wouldn’t allow anyone to tell me because she didn’t want "anything to interfere with ‘Sonny’s’ mission." As far as I am concerned, I know that nothing she ever did was merely self-serving.  She was a people-person, put other people first, and we all came to know it.

     Our home was located in the back portion of that store which was called Christensen Mercantile.  I visited the foundation of the store and home several years ago and it seemed to me that it had shrunk considerably from what I had remembered.  As I recall, as we went from the store through the merchandise stock room, we would come into the kitchen, then there was a living room with a Heatrola stove in the center that provided heat for the entire house and whose wood and coal box had to be filled each night (that was my earliest remembered regular job assignment.)  The back westerly portion of the house was a bedroom that accommodated my folks on the south end and beds for us children on the north.

     The portion of the house that I remember most clearly was the corner of the living room where my sister Coy had set up a “classroom” and almost every night she felt it her obligation to corner me and teach me whatever she had learned that day from her teacher in our then, two-room school house.  In Coy’s first years, there was the “little” room for the younger students and the “big” room for the last years of elementary school before going on to bigger things at Preston Junior High.  The “big” room had been discontinued by the time I got to school and all six grades were taught in the same one room.

     Coy was a demanding teacher and made sure that I followed through with cursive writing practice, arithmetic and reading for about two years before I entered the first grade.  All the teachers I remember after that were not so demanding. I will have to admit that even though she was quite a disciplinarian, she made an impression on me that led me to like school and learning.

     My first and second grade teacher was Miss Alice Caldwell.  I remember vividly that it was she who administered my first experience with corporal punishment.  I had painted a circle red that clearly should have been painted black and visa-versa.  She sharply slapped my hand.  The punishment and embarrassment apparently worked because I never made that mistake again.

     My Mom, Goldie, was quite a gardener.  The garden was located just north of the little “wash house” which also was north of the store and our home.  We always had fresh vegetables in the summer.  She did most of the work but occasionally she would trust us to do some of the weeding.  

     Early summer vacations were special for me.  We would swim in the irrigation ditches—without a life guard in sight—hunt for, steal from the nests in the barn or garage and collect sparrow or “spug” eggs as we called them, which I hid under a diagonal cross brace on the corner of the fence just north of the store.  I have fond memories of those years which were sweetened by stealthy access to some of the candy in the store—especially the two-cent rectangular squares of chocolate that were so good, and especially nutritious!  I confess that Mom did not always know that I had slipped one from the box container in the store as I was passing through.

     We had cows.  Dad operated the milk route that would pick up cans of milk from Banida and Winder and take them to the Sego Milk Factory in Preston.  Most of the milk was drawn by hand in those early years of my remembrance.  Almost every family had cows that would produce enough extra milk to be put into one or more ten-gallon cans to be picked up the milk hauler—either my Dad or Uncle Alex Swann who worked for us.  The milk check would be one of the main sources of a family’s cash flow during the years of the Great Depression. 

     There wasn’t much money circulating at that time.  It was not unusual for the youngsters to bring an egg or two to the store and exchange them for penny candy.  Often some of the folks in town would ride to Preston on the milk truck to do their shopping.  Dad, or Uncle Alex, would frequently bring back coal or other supplies to deliver to those who had made the request.

     Speaking of milking cows:  By the time I was old enough to join in with the milking, Dad had purchased a milking machine—which as I recall was the first to come into Banida.  My milking experience, except for old “Flory” who only had two teats and was milked separately, was assisted by this new-fangled machine.  I was never sorry for that invention!   From that time in my life until leaving home to go to college it never failed that we heard Dad say at precisely six o’clock in the morning, “Wake up boys, it’s time to do the milking.”  We knew that morning and evening there were chores to be done regardless of the hour we may have got to bed the night before.

      A vivid memory in my life occurred in November of 1938.  We were near the end of the school day when Glen Larson, whose class had ended prior to ours, came rushing to the door of the room and shouted, “Christerson’s store is on fire!!"  (For some reason, Glen always pronounced our name with the “r” in place of the “n.”)  We all immediately rushed to the south hall window and saw the billowing flames and black smoke coming from the store.  I ran home along with the rest.  We were cautioned to stand way back for fear that the gasoline pump and tank would explode.  One of the Casperson’s (I think,  Nathan) climbed up the pump and wrapped wet burlap sacks around the glass container at the top of the pump to help prevent its catching fire.  John Casperson was out on the roof of the wash house seeing that no sparks settled on its roof to start burning.  Others were doing the same on the hay stacks and barn to protect them.

     A few things were salvaged from the store and home, but very few.  Some new ice skating boots that I prized were among the treasures that were consumed.  The frame building that was our home and a substantial part of our family’s livelihood went up in smoke.  For us, it was devastating.  They never knew the cause of the fire.  Some thought it had been caused by some electrical wiring problems.  Dad and Harold Larson were in Ogden for one of Dad’s purchasing trips for the store and they arrived home way after dark.  As the car lights shone on the smoking rubble of the store, Dad was extremely worried that some of us may have been in the fire.  He was relieved when he learned that we were all safe and up to Grandpa and Grandma Miles’ home waiting for his return.

     Shortly before the trauma of the store and home burning, Dad, with Uncle Austin Christensen’s help, had built a small home for my widowed Grandmother Elsie Marie Christensen, just south of Uncle Alex and Aunt Anna Swann’s home.  That is where we were to live as a family until another place could be found.  Dad purchased the vacated home of H.S. Geddes on the corner north of the store on the southeast corner and began the re-modeling work.  Harold Larsen was hired to assist in the process.  About a year later, we moved into our “new” home.  

     Although the store was gone, Dad, and especially Mom, decided that they would not let the post office go.  Mom’s feeling was that if there were not a post office in a town, from a national standpoint, the town would lose its identity, disappear on the map, and she wanted to help preserve Banida’s place in the world.  A small area in the entrance to our new home was adjusted to accommodate the mail boxes and people would come to our home to pick up their mail.  That gave Mom a chance to meet regularly with a good share of the folks in Banida as they would come to retrieve their mail.  The mail was brought each week-day from the train that passed through Coulam.  It was picked up most often by Aunt Huitau Geddes Miles who would make the trek with the bag of mail to and from there each day.

     I suppose the combination of the convenience of the post office being in our home with Mom being the postmistress and her natural tendency to keep in touch may have led to my receiving a letter from her almost every day, or at least more than once a week from the time I left home to go to college, the mission, air force, graduate school and beyond.  There were hundreds and even thousands of them.  The letters were generally not more than one or two short notes on a page.  I have heard from several who were away from Banida in military service during WW II, or on missions, who have said that they also received regular letters from her.  She thought that everyone needed to be reminded that they were missed and very important to her.
  

     

This is the whole Banida school, grades one through six.  I am standing right in front of our teacher, Wyora Jackson.

     Back to school in Banida:  Wyora Jackson was the next teacher to arrive.  She was beautiful and young.  She was the first person I remember falling in love with.  It a way, it was for me, a disappointment when we learned that she had married LaMar Cole.  As far as I knew, all the students loved her.  I don’t know all the details, but it was she who recommended to my folks that rather than going into the fourth grade that I should skip to the fifth grade and join such as Verna Swann, Carma Larson, Mae Caldwell and Owen Casperson who were already there.  That was a real and challenging change for me and one that I enjoyed very much.

The Christensen's in Banida, Idaho

Joseph Amos Christensen on right

Goldie as a young adult

     When Dad and Uncle John Christensen moved from Central, Idaho to Banida to start a new merchandising venture of establishing a general store, called the “Christensen Mercantile,” they were single.  Uncle John had the idea of creating the business and Dad, through his working and saving, had some (probably most) of the capital to put into the venture.  That would be about 1921-1922.

     One night, they attended a Banida Ward talent show on the stage in the basement of the yellow brick elementary school across the street east from the one-room rock chapel.  The place functioned as the “cultural hall” for the community.  That program’s performance apparently had a big impact on my Dad.  There was a pretty young participant by the name of Goldie Echo Miles who was then 16-17 years of age.  She had a very good singing voice and, dressed as an Indian maid, sang “Indian Love Call.”

     Dad told me that when she finished singing, he turned to his older brother John and said, “That is the girl I would like to marry!”  Long story short:  They dated, and in December of 1923, Dad proposed and they became engaged.  Goldie was in her senior year at the Oneida Stake Academy and living away from home in Preston where she roomed and boarded with friends (the Esplin girls).  Dad was offended that Mom refused to wear her engagement ring while she was still in High School but after graduation in June, 1924, they were married and began a wonderful life together. In Mom's personal history she wrote: "I have always said to myself it was a lucky day for me when I met Joe. No one ever had a better partner."

     The “Christensen Mercantile” had its challenges and it was not long before Uncle John moved on to Ogden with his family and to more likely profitable ventures and left Dad with his personal investment and family.  Mom became the main clerk, and effectively the day-to-day manager of the store, as well as “Post-mistress” of the Banida Post Office which was located in the store.  As Federal employees of the Postal Department they received a few dollars each month for managing the mail service.  Meanwhile, Dad did all he could to patch together the income to support the family.

     They had some cows, pigs, chickens, and a large vegetable garden which was primarily Mom’s responsibility.  Dad started a milk–hauling business and picked up milk in ten-gallon cans from Banida through Winder and on to Preston to the Sego Milk Factory there.  He would often get a load of coal to bring back to customers in Banida as well as deliver other goods as ordered since there were few who could afford to make the trip to “town” personally.  Many would take advantage of a ride to Preston and back with Dad in the milk truck.

     Economically, the “Great Depression” years (ca. 1929-41) were difficult times for many in the area.  Several lost their farms when they could not meet their mortgage payments.  Goods in the store were often sold on credit to residents of the town.  There was little cash flow in the community.  Children and others would bring eggs to the store to exchange for candy or other merchandise.  Each week the eggs were taken from the store to Preston and sold to the “egg plant,” wherever that was.

     As I recall, about monthly, Dad would take a load of their pigs and other livestock to the auction in Ogden, Utah and then bring back the goods and merchandise to sell in the store.  Dad was an excellent mathematician and a good accountant to keep all the records straight.  They had regular, though small, income from the milk checks, milk-hauling, sale of livestock, Postmaster’s salary, some store profits, etc.

     As farms became available in the community due to the Depression, Dad, and I’m sure with Mom’s consent, began to make offers and acquire land since they did have some savings and were trusted enough by the bankers in Preston to make loans for the purchases.