Arizona Mom


At the airport - ready to leave Phoenix for NYC

At Rockefeller Center at night

Times Square at night

Grand Central Station's Grand Hall (Looks like Prince Charming's Castle)

Eating a soft pretzel at Grand Central Station

I've had a busy summer. In June I went to NYC with Arinda. It was lots of fun and Arinda was a darling! We never heard one word of complaint about anything. However she did have a hard time with the tenement museum, especially when they talked about the babies dying and the poisoned milk.

At the end of June I was home one whole day and then Greg's girls came for our Family Reunion. I'm really glad they came. We went up to Flagstaff and stayed in Gina and Scott's house while they were at the lake in their houseboat. We came back home on the 7th of July and the girls flew back home on the 13th. Anna came back out on the 12th to teach Master Classes for a Summer Intensive at Gina's dance studio in Flagstaff. David and I went up to spend time with her and Gina. It was hotter in Flagstaff than I expected (but still cooler than Mesa) and Anna was either very busy or wiped out from working. David and I mostly just sat around and did nothing.


Anna and Arinda at Grand Central Station's Grand Hall

This spot was interesting. If you whispered into the wall at one corner. . . .

You could hear it as clear as a bell in the opposite corner.

This morning I was listening to a talk by Dallin Oaks about Tolerance. The word “tolerance” immediately made me think of my father. And then I wondered how many other people would associate that quality with my dad.

My father was Ernest Floyd Evans and was born in Atlanta, Georgia in 1905. There are a lot of things I don’t know about him. I know that he was raised without a mother after he was five years old, that his father was reputed to be a hard and abusive man, and that he loved his Granny Yarborough. I don’t know who his heroes and good examples were, but I do know that he was good and kind and very intelligent.

My father was raised in Georgia in a somewhat impoverished family. From what I have read, it seems that most of the people in the south didn’t view Negroes as humans equal to themselves. The southern poor, who were often mistreated because of their insignificant economic status, would sometimes relish the opportunity to mistreat others of lesser status. It was what they taught their children and the way most of them lived their lives. My father did not share that view. From everything I have observed and heard about my father, he was always kind and accepting of others. Tolerant, yes. But kind too.

Being the youngest of six children and born when my father was forty-three years old, I probably had different parents than my siblings, just in view of the fact that they were all born to much younger parents. Most of the remembrances of my family members occurred before I was born. They remembered living in California, knew cousins I didn’t know, lived on streets I’d never seen and talked about pets and friends who were gone from their lives before I even came to earth. But I’m pretty sure that we all shared a dad who was patient, kind, gentle, soft-spoken and loving.

My father seemed to be a contradiction of himself. He was a southern boy from an impoverished background, raised without a mother by an abusive father , and was taken out of school after the 8^th grade. Yet he had no sign of a southern accent, spoke with perfect grammar, had an extensive vocabulary, was well read, and exemplified goodness and morality. Daddy treasured books and learning, enjoyed all kinds of music and poetry and taught himself to be an artist. He painted (I have a painting he did of a Hawaiian girl in the moonlight), carved (an ebony figure of my mother, though I have no idea what happened to it), and played a horn while he was in the Marines. Eventually, he started his own business called Evans Signs.

My dad didn’t yell unless you were far enough away that it was required to make himself heard. I was telling someone the other day about a teen who had let their dad’s brand new, hard-earned pickup truck roll over a cliff – due to his youthful lack of experience and forward thinking. The father didn’t say anything at all when his son came in appalled and mortified that he had done the unthinkable and began pouring out apologies. After several minutes, without removing the newspaper from in front of his face, the father said, “Well, I guess you’ll have to take the old car.” My friend commented that the father had learned to have amazing control over his anger. Then I realized that he didn’t have any anger that needed control. The father may have been disappointed and somewhat shocked, and he was probably tired and frustrated. However he put himself in his son’s place, realizing he was already suffering overwhelming remorse. He also knew that there was nothing he could do or say that would undo the terrible event. So, he acted with compassion for his son. That man could easily have been my father. That’s what Daddy would have done.

There were many years of my childhood that Daddy worked at home. He created advertising designs and plans. These were then displayed in various ways. Sometimes he fashioned them into physical structures that were on giant billboards along the highways, or spread across entire store fronts, or hung in front of establishments to publicize and promote their businesses. He also painted advertising on trucks, vans, etc., and lettered names and titles on the glass entry doors of banks, legal offices, medical offices and such. Sometimes he did the names and titles in “gold leaf” if the customer wanted to be recognized as high-class and sophisticated. This required a very special technique and was delicate work, using very thin sheets of real gold. I remember watching Daddy do this and he explained to me that you couldn’t touch the gold leaf sheets with your hand because it was so thin the natural body heat would melt it onto your fingers. It came pressed between sheets of paper and when the surface was prepared, Daddy would pick it up and apply it using static electricity in a wide, flat brush. It required meticulous effort and skill because any mistakes were not only time-consuming but very expensive to re-do.

Daddy would first make a sketch of the desired project. Then he would bring it up to size. That could be anything from one or two feet wide to sixty feet wide. Next he would make a pattern out of paper and put holes through it with a tracing wheel and affix it to the surface to be painted. He then took a pounce bag (a cloth bag filled with a fine charcoal dust) and struck it against the perforations to transfer the pattern. (Oh, I posted this before it was finished. I'll have to add to it.)

Most of my life I called my father Daddy. After I got married, I sometimes called him Papa. I know that Daddy’s favorite sport to play was soccer. He also enjoyed going to baseball games and he and Mama would watch the Friday Night Fights (boxing) on TV. I knew who Gene Fullmer was (a boxing champion from Utah) when I was quite young and was thrilled to meet him at a youth fireside once.

Mom and Daddy used to go to dances when they were young and they would occasionally put on old records and dance at home. This was “their song” and when I listen to it again I can see Momma and Daddy dancing around the living room and I get all misty eyed. I realize that despite our family’s flaws and faults, I come from a heritage where husbands and wives have loved each other. (If you google it and you can hear how it goes.)

Title: Al Jolson - The Anniversary Song

Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed
We vowed our true love, though a word wasn't said
The world was in bloom, there were stars in the skies
Except for the few that were there in your eyes

Dear, as I held you close in my arms
Angels were singing a hymn to your charms
Two hearts gently beating, murmuring low
"Darling, I love you so"

The night seemed to fade into blossoming dawn
The sun shone anew but the dance lingered on
Could we but recall that sweet moment sublime
We'd find that our love is unaltered by time

------ instrumental break ------

Darling, I love you so

The night seemed to fade into blossoming dawn
The sun shone anew but the dance lingered on
Could we but recall that sweet moment sublime
We'd find that our love is unaltered by time

I don’t remember my dad ever getting angry and losing his temper. I remember that he was angry with me once (which I entirely deserved) but he never lost his temper. I had disobeyed my parents and taken the car out of American Fork. I got a flat tire that I did not know how to change. It was about 11:00 p.m., winter and about fifteen degrees below zero.I called and asked Daddy if he would get up, out of bed, and come change the tire. Then I asked him not to tell Mom because I knew that she would be sure that I was punished to the n^th degree. He never yelled. He didn’t say anything at all. However I knew that he was angry and very, VERY, disappointed that I would be so disobedient, selfish, and inconsiderate. Feeling my dad’s disapproval and disappointment was terrible. I knew that I didn’t want to experience that feeling again.

My mom and dad did not go to movies. I’m not sure why. When Dr. Zhivago came out, someone (I think it was my brother Bud) talked them into going to see it. They loved it and went out and bought the sound track. Daddy loved the music and played it again and again. I was just 16 at the time and thought the story was too sad and depressing – about war and all. But I did like the music. As far as I can remember, mom and dad never went to see another movie.

Arizona Mom

Monday, November 26, 2012

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My work schedule

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

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Finding Balance - Julie Beck

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