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.