Abstract: This is an oral history of Julian Morris Powell. It was conducted September 23, 2007 and concerns her recollections of the history of the Marriott-Slaterville area. JP: I am Julian Morris Powell. I was born January 20th, 1911. I am getting a little older now. I am ninety-six years old. I don’t think quite as fast as I used to. My dad was Thomas Ezra Powell and my mother was Catherine Morris Powell. I am the only child born of the two of them. I don’t have any full brothers or sisters. My dad had a family and his wife passed away, my mother and him lived in the Marriott ward close together for years and years and their partners had left and my dad had six children and my mother had three. They married, and I am the only child of that marriage. Dad and mother and ten children and I was the youngest of any of them. Here is a picture of the Marriott ward basketball team. I will talk real short about them. Well over here in this left side is Clyde Hipwell. His dad Bill, moved over there from West Weber, and his mother was born and raised in Marriott where he was born. Deloss Bingham was the son of Dell Bingham. He was born in Marriott and grew up there and lived there all his life. His mother died when he and Delbert were just young children. The other one is Cornelius DeFriez. He is next to the youngest in the big family of the DeFriez family. He played basketball with us for maybe a year or two, but not too much. The next one is Marvin Buck. He was born and raised in Marriott, a son of Luther and Sara Buck. He lived there all his life until a few years after he was married. The next one is Euki DeFriez. He played with us for several years. He is an exceptionally good ball player. I would have to say at this point that he was the best athlete in the DeFriez famiy. There were quite a few of them and they were tall but he played with us several years and a good all around player and fast man. The next one is Clyde Morris. He played with us some and then he went and played up at the Agricultural College in Logan. He and his brother and Delbert Bingham went up and played and won the championship up here in high school. Then they went up and played, the four of them, up in the Utah State Agricultural College and they won the championship up there. The other DeFriez one that I said was Wesley and he played with us several years. The next one is Wayne Stanger. He played with us a few years. The next on is myself. We went to the Salt Lake tournament eight consecutive years and then the war came on and we were out for a couple of years. Then we went back again and I coached the Marriott team and we went to Salt Lake for the finals eight consecutive years and then we went back another two or three years. The next one is Elmer Slater. He didn’t play with us too much. He was kind of short and small but he was always on the job and did the best that he knew to do. The one sitting over in this left hand corner was Delbert Bingham and the one on the right hand side down was Jay Clifford Blair. He coached us for several years. We went up here in Weber and Ogden City and we went down there under his direction as the coach for about five years. Then he quit and I took over as a player and the coach for several years. Clifford was an exceptionally good athlete and he played for the Farm Bureau for Marriott. The Farm Bureau league has one of the best catchers in Weber County. Well this was a good team. This picture doesn’t have one of the better players that was on the team named Sam DeFriez. He wasn’t as fast as some of the players but he was real tall and he was real strong. A lot of times he would never come back on defense. We played a five man defense and a lot of times he would never come back on defense because he would stay close to the basket and very few times he would miss. He shot if he was close to the basket. One of the best players—he didn’t play with us too many years, but when he did play I would say he was the best score man that we had. We were playing up in the Weber gym up 24th street in a tournament and he said to me, “When I put up one finger I want the ball and I want it now.” He put up his finger for me to throw it and get him the ball. He was in a good position to score and a kid from up in the balcony hollered down, Sam and his family all came here from Holland and this kid from up in the balcony hollered down and said, “Where’s your wooden shoes?” He turned to look up there to shake his fist at them and I had let the ball go. The ball hit him right on the side of the head and dropped him just hard right down, and he hit on his shoulder. I ran over to him and rubbed him and got him up, and he played the rest of the game but he hit right on his shoulder. I thought maybe it had hit his head but it didn’t. It knocked him flat down. He was an exceptionally big man and a good player. One time I was playing and about five or six players were under the basket pushing it up trying to get it in, he didn’t jump, he stood there and he had his one leg bent and I just ran in and the ball was up bouncing around the basket. I ran in and I stepped right just above his knee right on his leg with a basketball rubber shoe and tipped the ball to his brother Euki and he scored. Sam come back and was rubbing his leg. He said, “I wonder what went wrong with my leg.” But I had stepped on it with a rubber sole and it had kind of burned his leg but he was an exceptionally good player. Never to give up. We went down eight consecutive years from this area to play in the church finals in Salt Lake. We went eight consecutive years and then missed a few. We were playing and they notified us—I was coaching them then—and they said that they had one too many teams in the tournament at Salt Lake for the finals. Then we’d flip a coin to see if we went or if we didn’t go. I said, “Well who is the other team?” And they said, “You and a basketball team from Pocatello, Utah were tied to go in,” and it was up to one of us to go. He said, “Would you like to flip a coin?” And I said, “No. Send them down and we will play them.” They sent them down and we beat them. Then one time, nothing to do with the church basketball but they had a tournament up at Malad, Idaho and they sent a team from down here up there. They went up for one night and played at Malad. Marriott got beat so the kid that was going to drive that day said he wasn’t going up to play anymore because they got beat. So we had a guy working there, his name was Lee Dopp. He had his car in the shop getting it fixed and they would give him a V8 Ford. So we got our heads together and Clyde and Floyd Morris and Delbert Bingham, and Riley Shaw who was my brother-in-law and me. We had to drive fast to get up there to play that afternoon. We didn’t know we were going until noon. We drove up to Malad and played in a tournament there and we played the Fort Hall Braves and we beat them in the afternoon and we went out and got something to eat and came back and played the Mendon Wildcats again that night for the championship. We beat the game in the afternoon and we won the next one again at night. When we came back they had fixed his car from the Ford motor company and they came out to bring his car back to him and his wife said, “Well he is out of town.” They said, “Where is he?” She said, “He is in Malad.” They said, “Oh he can’t take that car across the state line!” But we came back, we got back after midnight. We went up the next morning to the Ford motor company and I said well we was broke down and this guy took us up there and brought us back and they said, “Okay.” They wouldn’t press any charges against us. While we were in the process of playing a lot of basketball for the church, some professional teams would come here and play. Sometimes we would play them a full game and sometimes we would only play them a half. But they were professional players. A team came from a clothing store in Wichita, Kansas and they were all white players. I have never seen a team with as pretty of suits as they had on. They were professionals and we played them and they liked to shoot long shots and not play any rough stuff. I don’t think I ever did see them shoot a long shot that went in. It just seemed like they didn’t score up close and they were a professional team. They would pass the ball around in back of their selves and to another player and that was the best team that we did play, the Wichita Kansas Clothers. Then we played the Iowa Ghosts. They were all black and they were traveling across the country. We played them maybe two or three consecutive years. They would come through and they would call and say they would be here on certain dates and they would pick someone and we played them. The center’s name was Sue K. Simmons and we both got the ball in the center of the floor so the referee called a tie up ball. He was about seven feet tall. I crouched down just a little bit, and I thought well maybe if I jump as hard as I can jump he will stay flat footed and just tap it. Maybe I can jump as far as he would just reach and I could block the ball. So I crouched down and when the referee blew the whistle to start I jumped as high as he stood flat footed and he just reached out with his right hand and put it around me and put me right around his hip and reached up with the other hand and knocked it down to one of his players. His name was Sue K. Simmons of the Iowa Ghosts. The Globe Trotters were all black and we played them several times, when they were traveling through, particularly toward California. They would call in here and sometimes we would play them a full game and sometimes we’d only play them a half game, but they were all professional players. We tried to beat them but we never could come close in doing it. One—I can’t remember what his name was now—he was black and little and he was a guard. He went out around me, I was over close to the side and about half way down the gym, and he stepped right out around me and down to the basket. A little later in the game he wanted to do the same thing and he came right around the sideline dribbling and when he went to go out around I just leaned over and caught him on my right shoulder and he lit about the third bench up on the bleachers. I can’t recall his name right now. He was a play guard and was fast but he wasn’t that big. One time when we were playing mutual ball and going, like I said, eight consecutive years down to Salt Lake and after that we went a few years after, after the war. We had a good team. The Marriott family had moved up in the twelfth ward, and it came our turn to play them to see who was going to Salt Lake, and it happened to be my Aunt Nell Marriott’s birthday that day and so they said, well, they would close her birthday a little earlier in the evening because they wanted to go to the ball game because Marriott was going to play the twelfth ward. They brought a couple of guys down to Salt Lake to play with them and when we were in there warming up that night Deloss Bingham came over to me and he said, “Did you see the shoes that Russell Marriott has got on?” And I said, “No.” I looked at his shoes, we were just getting ready to play them and warming up and he said, “He has got all leather shoes on. I have never seen anyone with all leather basketball shoes on.” I said, “Well, we don’t care what kind of shoes he has got on but we have got to beat them.” So we started to play. Russell was a good player. He was left-handed and he liked to go up and play next to the wall on the outside, just inside the boundary and then cut in to the basket and he would shoot with his left hand and he was hard to guard. We were well aware of that fact and they had one of their best players with him. I remember his name was Fred Shots. He was an exceptionally good player and Russell was expecting him to score real well. He had played with us several years and we knew where he liked to play. He liked to go up the left side and stay just inside and then come in and scores with his left hand and to reach over a lot of times you would foul him. But we were aware of that so before he would cut in to the basket we would travel right along the side of him and crowd him a little bit so he couldn’t get that left hand up. He would have to cross over. Sometimes he would lose the ball and he would whirl around. When he went to do anything that was real hard for him to do he would always stick his tongue out to the side like that. He would stop and stick his tongue out and whirl around with his fist but by the time he got turned around everybody would be gone. He would turn around several times with his tongue out, biting and swing with his right hand because we wouldn’t let him score with his left. We beat them and we got four points ahead of them right on the start and then they never did catch us. Just a little while before the end of the game they put Woodrow in and he was a younger one, they put him in but he only played a couple of minutes and they took him out. We never did get behind. We stayed ahead of them all the way through. They had a cheering crew there and a group of young people in a section for the twelfth ward and they were really trained to cheer for them. But when the game was over, Russell’s dad, Will Marriott, he was there sitting with the twelfth ward. They had just moved in the twelfth ward about a year before that. We all had suits on with Marriott written across them. When the ball game ended and we were still ahead of them, we stayed ahead of them all the way through. Russell’s dad, who was my uncle, got up and was real cold and he went down off of the bleachers a little ways and with his hat in one hand and his overcoat over his arm on the other and turned and walked in front of the twelfth ward cheering crew and he said, “What the hell is the trouble? Can’t anybody smile?” And then he came over and congratulated us for beating them. I always thought that he wanted us to win although he had moved into the twelfth ward. We had his name Marriott wrote right across our suits. I was always of the opinion that he was glad that we beat the twelfth ward but he came over and congratulated us and then smiled and walked out of the gym. It was cold that night. There were only about sixty-five families in the Marriott ward. They had a dance hall there and a stage in the one end. They took that stage out and that gave us about another thirty feet so it was a pretty good sized gym for us to play in. Some of the toughest teams we had to play in the league for the mutual was probably North Ogden and Plain City and the Eighth Ward of Ogden, the Fourth Ward of Ogden, and the Seventeenth Ward of Ogden. Other than the Plain City—they were all pretty well city wards. They had a big group of people to pick from because they were big wards. And we only had about sixty-five families in the ward. Sometimes they had good players and they would find out where the best team was and so they could go over and rent an apartment. Some of them were married guys and some of them were single. They would go and rent apartments in that ward so they could play with them. One night I remembered I was playing and Clifford Blair was coaching us for several years. I don’t remember right now just who we were playing but we were getting to the end of the game and we were only three or four points ahead and Clifford called a timeout. Deloss Bingham was playing forward, he was not very big but he was fast and a good scorer. Coach called a timeout and we went over to see what he wanted and we were real close. We were just a few points ahead of them. He said to Deloss Bingham, “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you going like you are usually doing?” He said, “I got the skin off of my foot and I have got a sore foot.” And Clifford said, “You’ll go back in and forget you got a damn foot!” Now that is the kind of coaching we did get. He came back in and we won the ball. We played four nights to get to go and we had to win. I played the first night and I turned an ankle. That was the only time in all of the time I have played that I ever turned an ankle, but I turned an ankle that night and we still won the ball game. The next morning I went up to Doctor Seidner. He was in the office and I pulled off my shoe and I said, “Can you see anything wrong with my ankle here or what you can do for it?” He said, “I don’t see much of anything wrong with it.” So I thanked him and pulled my shoe on and walked down the hall to Doctor Clark Rich. Now his dad was a doctor before him, Ezra and Edward Rich. They were half brothers but they were both doctors. Technically Ezra Rich came to our house when I was born to deliver me. But I walked down the hall and his son Clark Rich was the only one in his chair. It was in the morning and he was looking at the early newspaper. I went in and pulled my shoe off and I said, “Can you see anything wrong with my ankle?” He said, “A blind man could see what is wrong with that!” So he took a bandage and bandaged it up and he said, “Now I’ll undo that and you watch how I do it. You bring it up the outside; you take it down on the inside and bring it up on the outside.” And he banded it up again. He said, “I’ll tie that up for you and you keep this, I won’t put it that tight.” Then he said, “Tonight, when you get ready to play you tighten that up real tight and at the half your foot will maybe go a little numb. At the half you come out and loosen it and then before you go back in, tighten it back up again. Always pull it up from the outside out.” I did that and I played alright and at the half I loosened it a little and pulled it back up. It did get a little numb but I played that night and went down to Salt Lake and played in the tournament. It never bothered me; I just tied it up every night for the rest of the season. I was born in 1911 and World War I with Germany was in 1918 and so I was seven years old when the war was on. They took one of my brothers. Carl went up to Logan to the training camp and Clifford Blair, he was twenty-one on the fourth of June. He had to register on the fifth of June. He said, “Oh why couldn’t I have been born later and I wouldn’t have had to register?” When that war came on, I was only seven years old, but we had a lot of sugar beets and they took him and Frank Tribe who was my oldest sister’s husband. Guy Wecker was my other sister’s husband, and Clifford Blair and then a lot of the men of our neighbors in our community, took them in World War I. They took them in the late summer. My mother went up and got a letter. I remember going with her, I was seven years old and we went up in the Eccles Building and saw Caleb Marriott. He had just graduated and opened an office as an attorney. My mother had been to an attorney and wrote a letter to the government to see if Clifford could come home to harvest the sugar beets. We never did hear from them so we went in the Eccles Building and kicked on the door. Caleb Marriott had just graduated and he was admitted to the bar. He would take his lunch with him, eat his lunch, and then he would take a nap for an hour. The door was locked but his dad said he would be there. So I went there with my mother and I kicked on the door. I remember kicking on it with my shoe and he opened the door and he had taken a nap. It was just after lunch. My mother went in and told him what we wanted and he said, “I will write a letter.” He wrote a letter and in two weeks Clifford came home. He was in Presidio, in California in the camp. He sent that letter there and he released him and he came home. We got all the sugar beets out and then he went back. Well when—I was going to tell you about General Pershing. When I went there with my mother when they marched them all from 24th street down and down 25th and into the railroad yards, I would guess that they must have had 150 men in uniform, young ones that they had picked up then. My brother and our neighbors were among them. I went with my mother and they marched them down off of the hill and into the railroad yards. They had a passenger train there and it had bars on the window. They didn’t let them stop to speak. You didn’t bother them at all. They had officers with them and they stayed right in line. They walked up the steps and into these cars, a whole trainload of them with bars on the windows. I stood there with my mother and I know I cried. I cried a little bit because I thought I would never see them again with the bars on the windows. They went to the camp and later on in the early fall, they sent General Pershing. “General Pershing is coming to town! He’ll be at the Depot and he’ll talk shortly.” I pleaded with my mother and we went with a buggy and a horse, tied it up, and then walked over to the Ogden Depot on 25th street. We waited just about five minutes and they switched the car. They had a wooden platform there on wheels that they had made. It was just a platform on wheels but it was high. They pulled the passenger car in and it stopped right in front of us and a couple of men went over and wheeled this wooden platform over to the door and they opened the door on the passenger train and General Pershing walked out onto that platform. He had all the ribbons and the citations on his suit. He didn’t have a hat on, he was gray-headed. He was a medium sized man and he walked out on that step and he said, “We are going to end the war and we are going to send your boys home.” I thought that was the best news that I had ever heard. He talked for, oh, maybe two or three minutes at the most, then he waved goodbye and stepped back in and they moved the car I guess to some other place for him to speak. I waited for that time and sometime after—that was in about August I’d say and along in November all the whistles started to blow. There weren’t many cars around then but there were a few. They were honking the horns but there were a lot of whistles blowing in Ogden City and you could hear them out where we lived in Marriott, just down 12th street. Our family was gone working on milk routes and farming and whatnot. Just my mother and I were home. She said, “The operator won’t talk to you on the phone, so you go catch that gray horse and go from where we live over across 12th street and the railroad track over to 17th street and ask Mrs. Wecker.” Her boy was Guy Wecker and he had married my sister before he went in the military. “You go over and ask Mrs. Wecker if she can get the operator to tell her what the whistles are and the trains blowing.” So I got on the horse and rode over there and they had a little fence up in front of their house. Her daughter was there and she said, “What can I do for you?” I said, “I want to talk to your mother.” So her mother came out on the sidewalk and I said, “I want to know if you can call the operator and find out what all the horns are blowing and all the whistles are blowing.” She said, “You tell your mother that you can’t talk to the operator, but she just keeps saying, ‘They have caught the Kaiser.’ And then in a second or two she’d say, ‘They caught the Kaiser.’” So I said, “But she wants to know what the whistles are.” And she said, “Well you tell her that they have caught the Kaiser.” So I went on home and my mother was standing in the yard by the house as I rode in on this old gray horse. She came right over to the horse and she said, “What did she say?” I said, “She said to tell you that they have caught the Kaiser.” She put up her hand and smiled all over. She said, “The war is going to end. The Kaiser is the head of the German army and they have gotten him so the war is going to end.” I thought that was the happiest time that I had. Sure enough, in about December, just about Christmas time, they shipped those boys from our community and a lot of other soldiers home. They were home for Christmas. Years after that, I was seven years old then, and when I was about sixteen or so I was in a meeting and they said, “Other than your dads or your fathers, who would you think was the greatest man that you ever saw or talked to?” I guess there was about fifteen in that circle and I was almost to the end, not quite, and they went around. When they come to me I said, “It was General Pershing. He was the best man I ever knew and ever did see.” They said, “You didn’t know General Pershing.” And I said, “Yes, I did. I went up to the train and he walked out on the little platform and he said, ‘We are going to end the war.’ That was in about October and then in November, about a month or so later, I guess that was about August and I said, “He said we are going to end the war and send your boys home.” I said I thought he was the greatest man I had ever heard speak. If I knew the future, like I remember the past I would be pretty smart. It isn’t hard for me—at times I recall lots of things that have happened in the past and I grew up pretty active. Like I said, when the war was on I was seven years old and when it ended I’d had a birthday and the war ended in 1918 so I was only seven years old that winter. Then coming in the spring in January I became eight years old. I was active, and we had a big family, four girls and six boys. I don’t have any full brothers or sisters. My dad lost his wife, she died with a heart attack and my mother married my dad and I was born when she was thirty-four years old. She had three children and he had six. They had known each other, born and raised in the same ward. They decided they would get married. They had lost their partners so I was the tenth child. When I was a kid I enjoyed growing up with this family. Although I was on one side and some on the other, that didn’t bother me and didn’t seem to all the way through my life. I respected them as my full brothers and sisters. My oldest sister on my dad’s side was Ethel and she used to curl my hair. I was blonde. I had kind of golden colored hair and she used to put it up. They didn’t have bobby pins and stuff like that then, they had hair pins. She used to tear strips of cloth and put my hair up in curls. When I got three years old I thought maybe somebody would think I was a girl, so I said, “I guess I had better go have my hair cut.” My mother took me up the next morning and just down 24th street, right by the Eccles Building there was a barber shop, a big long barber shop. I walked in there and climbed in the first chair. It was in the morning. The barber got a board and put it across the arms of the chair and set me up on there so he could reach me. He cut my curls off and laid them all in an empty chocolate box. He laid it in there and wrapped it up and tied a string around it. That was the first cut I had ever had. I guess I was about three years old. I took the box, and when I went home I had this box under my arm. I handed it to my sister Ethel; she is the one that always curled my hair. I handed it to her and she cut the string on it and undid it and my curls were all laying kind of golden color in there and she cried. She put her arm around me and she cried because that was the first hair cut I ever had. Like I say, I was born in Marriott in 1911 and I don’t remember much about Ogden City until I was about three years old. We had a dairy farm and a crop farm and whatnot and ran that all with the horses on iron towered wagons. My dad had two retail routes and two wholesale routes. There was no refrigeration then. You had to pack things in ice in the summer and cover them in the winter to keep them from freezing. When we would go into town—in Ogden City we sold all the milk. My dad had a big herd of cows and then he bought a lot of milk. Ten gallon cans and then processed it. We delivered that into Ogden. You might say we had to put ice in the bottom of the wagons in the summer because the jarring of the wagon would churn the bottles of cream and we’d have whipping cream and coffee cream and milk. The jar of the wagons would shake that whipping cream and when you would get it into town it would have about an inch or half inch of yellow butter on top. We had to pad those wagons all up with canvas and then put ice on them or whatever to keep them cold in the summer and keep them from freezing in the winter—drove them all with the horse wagons. Then there were a few grocery stores around and I remember going to town once in awhile with my mother. We drove a horse and buggy, and up in the front was a dashboard and you had a lap robe you threw over your legs, and there was a socket where you could put the whip if you had one, and we drove a single horse on that buggy. It had a top on to keep the storm off you and put a lap robe on you, then go into town and tie them up on the side of Washington Boulevard. When the circus would come to town, a man would come along on his bicycle and he said, “Take care of the horses because the elephants are coming.” People didn’t want the horses jumping around. I thought that it wasn’t the elephants and he wouldn’t go any farther. He’d go to the South or the North but he wouldn’t go any farther up to the circus grounds. He could smell those animals. When we were downtown there were a few grocery stores here and there. Henry Tribe ran a grocery store and it was out this way in Ogden. As you went over there was another grocery store. Then there was somewhere—what was the name of them—Piggly Wiggly. My brother Carl decided he was going to go and get a job and he went to work and they gave him a job in the store, Piggly Wiggly’s but he only stayed there about two months. He said all he was doing was stacking shelves. Piggly Wiggly’s was in and then Safeways. But the grocery stores were far apart and then they were long. There were a lot of people on the street then. Very few cars, maybe a car here and there, maybe a Ford car and then a Buick car, a few long but very few cars. At the grocery stores a few and the clothing stores, clothing store—there was one on the West side of Washington—it was called the Golden Rule Store. It was a clothing store. Wright’s was another store on the northwest corner of 24th street. Wright’s clothing store was across the street from the Eccles Building which is still there. Bank buildings then weren’t there. A few grocery stores, a lot of clothing stores. It was wet until 1918, and then it was against the law to sell or have liquor or whiskey. Of course, there was some bootlegging going on where they made their own whiskey and sold it. As I grew up as a kid, going along the sidewalk, there were a lot of people walking on the sidewalk and not many vehicles, so they would be walking along the street and it wouldn’t be anything to see two or three men sitting with their feet in the gutter, they would be sitting there drunk and then you would go over here a ways farther and there would be a few more. Then they had policeman come along. They didn’t take them in all of them, but they tried to keep the streets cleared up. Then a lady would come along and maybe have a package in one hand and a couple of kids trailing along her side. She would stop a young man here or there and ask them if he would go into the saloon—saloons were over there where you would buy whiskey and drink. This was just before 1918 and she would ask them, “Would you go in and see if you can get my husband to come.” They would go in and sometimes they would go in and sit at the bar and other times they would bring them out and they were wobbling, they were drunk, and sometimes they couldn’t get them to come out. It wasn’t anything to go along the street and have several drunks on Washington Avenue. You don’t see that now. Lots of people walking. Like I say, 1918 it went dry so they couldn’t have any alcohol. Then in Ogden City, 25th street was noted as one of the special streets in Ogden. The trains stopped—all the passenger trains then had a big station just below Wall. You walked off of Wall onto a big passenger—oh it was five hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide where you went to go in and seats were all in there where you went in to wait for the train to go out of town or for one to come in and meet people and then they came. There was hotel right on the corner of 25th and Wall and they had a lot of business in there for people that rode the passenger trains and then came up the street and the Marriott Hotel and then you’d get up farther and the Broom hotel was there. That was a prominent hotel on 25th street, the upper part. Then across the street, the skyscrapers you might say went in as a hotel over across Washington. It wasn’t anything then to see quite a few people. There were saloons all over—three along 25th street and a couple or three along Washington. That all “went dry.” Then in just a few years they come along with “three-two beer.” Old man Becker was in the Brewery business in the eastern states and he and his boys Gus Becker and Albert Becker. He had come down and opened a brewery on about 21st and Lincoln. There was no Wall Avenue come across there. He opened a brewery in there and they run that and they were allowed to make “three-two beer.” So he opened that and built the brewery there. He first put it in and they sold Becco, didn’t have any alcohol in it but it had Becker’s Becco. The people drank that. He sold quite a lot of that. People thought that that helped their health and the doctor’s recommended it for some people. Then they made all kinds of soda water and different brands of soda water there. Then two percent beer came in. So they had to make that. We had a contract with them to haul all the malt that was there—it was a three story building, the first one was the ground floor and then on the second was the big kettle, it was as big as these two rooms and that is where they brewed it. The next one was the barley and the hops and that. They had a big copper kettle there and they made that. You could see the thing going out of the top, little pipes going out where the alcohol went out. That was a “three-two beer.” It couldn’t test any more than that. They brought one of their son-in-laws from California and he was a doctor in California. He came in and they put him in the chemistry room. He had to test it so it couldn’t go over three-two in two-three beer—two-three I guess it was. You would go into a store and as soon, and as you went in they had a clerk who would come, the same in the grocery stores. In the clothing stores someone would wait on you as soon as you went in—try to sell you a suit of clothes or a pair of shoes. The best shoes you could buy were five dollars. Suits would cost you maybe thirty dollars for a suit of clothes, as good of clothes that you could buy. Shirts and whatnot—people wore shirts and then they had a collar—you brought a collar and put it around you and fastened a little brass button here and then you would put the necktie on. The shirts you would buy didn’t have any collars, work shirts did, but the dress shirts never had any collar on it. They would just come around and button here—then you put a tie on top of that. It was quite a job for our family to keep all the collars and all the shirts—they had to wash them and iron them out and then they put the tie on top of that. Maybe wear the shirt a couple of times with the collars. I remember several of the stores that came along, like Piggly Wiggly and Safeway and others. Then there was—I remember the Egyptian theatre. It was later in years and they had the stars all show up in the ceiling. The Peery’s owned the Egyptian and the Ogden Theater and Glassman’s owned the Orpheum Theater and the Alhambra was down on Keisel Avenue. You would go to the shows and it would cost you—when I was a kid it would cost you fifteen cents to get in. Adults were about thirty-five cents to get in to the shows. I remember when Willard Marriott went back to Washington D.C., he met his wife Anna Sheets. He met her in the University of Utah. He had been on a mission. He went on a mission and when he came back he went to Weber Academy here and Aaron Tracy was the President then. When he came back they had closed that and he went down to the University of Utah. There is where Willard Marriott met Anna Sheets. She was going to the University of Utah and he met her there, got acquainted with her and he married her. Before he married her he bought a new model-T Ford and went up north and sold woolen goods, most of it from the Utah Woolen Mills in Salt Lake where they took the wool and refined it and made woolen clothes. He went up there and stayed all summer. When he came back from his mission he went up there and stayed all summer and sold woolen clothing and blankets and everything. That is where he met his wife and then he came back and went up again and then he got married and I remember him, Willard Marriott, stopping at our house in the morning—it was about eight o’clock in the morning—and he had a model-T. He had come in and my mother and I walked out to his car with him and Anna Sheets was sitting in this model-T and my mother said to him, “Have you got good tires on this car?” I walked around it and I couldn’t see a bit of tread on any of them. They were all bald tires. She was sitting in the seat there but we wished him well. Now here is what he said and I shouldn’t tell you this but I will anyway. He wouldn’t care. My mother said, “Well that is a long ways to drive this model-T to Washington D.C.” He had come from up north and a lot of places that he went, he couldn’t collect his money where he had sold clothing and blankets and things. When he came back he said, “Mrs. Sheets,” that would be his mother-in-law, “gave me five hundred dollars and said you can use that and go on your honeymoon from here to Washington D.C.” So he said, “I have plenty of money.” Anna Sheets mother gave him five hundred dollars. Now that is what he said right there in front of our house. They were going to drive this model-T back there and go on their honeymoon. He went back there and he and another man, Sterling Colton, went back to Washington D.C. and opened the A & W Rootbeer stands. Russell and I once in awhile we’d go in to town and walk over by the Egyptian Theatre and they had a barrel going around of A & W Rootbeer. Once in awhile Willard would send a letter, an envelope that would have some A & W tickets in there. We’d go in there and get a couple of mugs of A & W Rootbeer on the tickets he would send for it. That was quite a treat to go in and get free A & W Rootbeers. Ogden City has grown in the last several years, then they put the mall in and it fell apart and there is a lot of Ogden City that has moved into the upper bench and over into Riverdale and out into places. Ogden City isn’t anything like it used to be. They put the big mall in there and then they couldn’t make it financially. Other than the banks—the city itself has slipped away. Years and years ago, 25th street was well known all over the country. The trains would come in and stopped in the depot at 25th and Wall. Then people went up and there were several hotels in there and restaurants. When you got almost to Washington, right there by Kiesel Avenue, by Washington and Kiesel, was a place opened by two men, it was a long restaurant. It was Ross and Jack’s Burger with spuds for a quarter. They had more business there than they could take care of hardly. You could go any time of the day or the night and they had customers there. My dad furnished them all the dairy products for that place. It was Ross and Jacks and you got a big hamburger, potatoes and gravy, and a vegetable for a quarter. That is what it was advertised—Ross and Jacks dinner for twenty-five cents. You got a big hamburger, the potatoes and gravy and a vegetable for twenty-five cents. Ketchup and other things were all sitting there, you could help yourself to them. I remember they had a sign there one time it had come out and it said, “Go easy on the butter boys, it is forty cents a pound.” It was a long restaurant, the cash register in the front and rows down here and clear down there, and there were people there—twenty-five cents. J. W. Randall came and wanted me to put in one hundred and thirty thousand ton of sugar beets in two big piles. They were a half a block long and eighteen feet high. I told him, “I don’t want to.” He said, “Yes, you put them in.” And I put in one hundred and thirty thousand ton of beets in with beet forks, with just men by hand. He said, “Don’t hire all the guys.” The depression was on then. “Try to hire them all around Weber County where they have grown sugar beets.” I finally agreed to do it and I paid those men four dollars and twenty cents a day. The twenty cents went for insurance. Each one was insured for everything for twenty cents. They got four dollars and they worked for eight hours. I put that in and he said, “Don’t hire everybody in your community, hire them all around Weber County.” I had to turn guys down and they put it on an endless belt, here was the pile a half a block long and another one here. It had a pipe flume with the top lids, you took them off. The water would run fast, pumping it and it circulated and washed the beets in and we put them on a belt and they went over and dumped into this flume. I put a hundred thirty thousand ton of beets in with beet forks. Not one man did I ever have to correct, never had one quit, never had one get sick, never had one get hurt, and I never told one he had to do more work or correct him in his throwing. It never stormed. We put them in, through all of November, the factory guy would look up there and if you would watch the moon, the moon will be up here and as it goes down it isn’t the moon. It looks like it has turned but it hasn’t. He would look up at the moon and say, “That is a wet moon, you’ll have to hurry Juke, it is going to storm.” We had a platform and you’d come up here and it had a tent of canvas. So if it did storm they were under it. It had a little caterpillar electric on each end of it. It was as long as the pile of beets was wide. It had a little electric caterpillar end. Steve Crowley worked for the sugar company and he stayed and when they would throw the beets in from here to there and have to reach for them, it was electric and he’d put it in and it would crawl up close to the pile. When they reached them—a lot of those guys would sit with their rump right on the edge. It had a four by four along here and a belt, the belt kept going and they would sit right with their butt on that and throw those beets on. That was in 1935, it was the year Sharon was born. The year that Franklin D. Roosevelt took the presidential election by a landslide, was in November of 1932. Remember that the President goes in on an even year. He goes in on ’32, ’36, and right on up. When they picked those potatoes up I gave them six sacks, six hundred pounds apiece. Some worked ‘til noon and they got three hundred pounds. They were red bliss potatoes, just perfect and I said to them when they left that night at five o’clock, it would have been the day before Election Day and the night after election in 1932 it started to snow. You never saw the ground until spring. That was the toughest winter I ever saw. They went over and voted and that night they put Franklin D. in and the next day we got through. The price of potatoes—I took them out in the spring, I carried them upstairs, downstairs, Wesley Hewitt didn’t have a job and he lived in a house that charged him seven dollars a month. He couldn’t pay the rent so he worked it out. We delivered those potatoes, upstairs, downstairs, traded them in for groceries. They were thirty cents for a hundred pound bag. Uncle Will Marriott moved into town. They had moved into town off of the farm and he come to me and he said, “Do you want to rent the lower farm?” I said, “Well yes I would rent it.” So I rented that lower farm for him. I put it all in sugar beets, and if you crowd it there was seventeen acres. The Warren canal ran along the east end and the riverbed was on that end. I ran them from there right through. I put that into sugar beets and I got three dollars and eighty-five cents a ton for them. Now, earlier, a few years before that, the sugar beets were up to twelve dollars and they stayed there. My dad was a bishop for a dozen years. My mother and my dad went down to conference and when they came back we had a long table and there was twelve of us at the table. I sat at the far end and my dad sat at the head end. When they were there one of our family said, “Well what did they tell you at conference?” My mother said, “President Smith,”—Joseph Fielding was the President—he got up and he said, “If you are in debt, get out as fast as you can and if you are not in debt, stay out because the price is going to go down.” Sugar beets were twelve dollars a ton. We had every piece of ground around in sugar beets. In fact, we got a furlough for Clifford to come home and dig sugar beets in September. They were twelve dollars a ton, and they started going down in 1932, Uncle Will and Aunt Nell Marriott and Russell and them had all moved into town. They had moved up to the 12th Ward. The spring of 1932 I put it all in sugar beets, seventeen acres and I got three dollars and eighty-five cents a ton for them. I grew that whole field down there and I got a check for eleven hundred and something dollars, I had a good crop. I dug those potatoes and quit and went down and hauled beets for everybody. I hauled over sixteen hundred ton of beets on a 1932 Chevrolet truck and I loaded them all with beet forks. I hauled them beets in and I had almost three hundred ton and I got a check. When he came, they were all good beets and I dug these potatoes and quit and went down and the next day and that night I finished the potatoes it snowed. It started to blow from the east and it snowed. I still had about four acres of sugar beets, I left them right by the road, right on this end and I had to dig them in the snow. I went down the next morning and I had four—this is a coincidence—I had four toppers, topped them all by hand and put them in wind rows. I had two red-headed guys, Wesley Hewitt and the Dana kid. I had Joe and Bill Elmer, they lived on 17th street and were both married men. These two topped the row and these two topped the row and I drove right down the middle of them. I put a team of horses on the truck and I never drove them. They were good horses, I had used them all fall. They were the last beets I got out. Here is the seat, the mirror stuck out here, I hung the lines on the mirror and I loaded this corner and a man here and then the two would throw, all with beet forks. Guys would come and say, “I’ll come on and drive those horses for you.” I would say, “Nope we don’t talk to them.” I left them standing, I got out right here, didn’t shut the door, leave it open, when I got in all I would do is touch the gas and they just knew to go. They would start to pull and when I let the gas off they stopped. We rent right up and never got stuck a load. Uncle Will came down there, he came down there and Myer and Wright, Myer and Wright was in his arms. He came down in the spring they were all like this. Myer would run out over here and I said, “That sand is hot.” That was in the spring. He said, “He’ll be back in a minute,” the old man said, Uncle Will. He did, he ran about from here to the front door and here he had come back. He had burned his feet because the sand was hot. He picked him up. That was in the spring. In the fall, the same place Uncle Will came down there alone and I was getting the last of them out the last day. I had a team of horses on there and no driver, they would pull right up and when I put the gas down that is just like saying “get up” to them and when I take the gas off they stop. We loaded them and he drove down there with his car and stopped outside the bridge of that lower field and he said, “I have never seen horses pull like that without a driver.” They would go right up and come right out. They listened to the gas. When you would give them the gas they went. When you quit the gas they stopped. When Aunt Nell and Uncle Will come to my mother’s house and came in the front door and talked to my mother a little bit, my mother said—her and I were there, the only ones—she said, “Willard is making a lot of money. He is about a millionaire.” Aunt Nell spoke up and she said, “Yes, the poor boy. It has cost him over ten thousand dollars income tax.” Then Uncle Will chuckled and laughed and she was real serious and he chuckled and laughed. He said, “I have come to get the rent,” from the farm I had rented. I walked in the other room in the bedroom and I had the cash there. I got a check for eleven hundred dollars. I counted it out and Uncle Will was sitting here and she was sitting here. I gave him half—I didn’t get quite eleven hundred, but I gave him five hundred and fifty dollars. That was half of it. I went there to give it to him in cash and Aunt Nell spoke up and she said, “No, he don’t get it, you give it to me.” It put me in a spot. I said, “Well, he come and ask me if I wanted to rent it and I rented it off of him for five hundred and fifty dollars and I will have to give him the money.” So I give him the money, I gave him just a few dollars over half of what I made. They got up and left. I guess Aunt Nell thought that I made too much money so they didn’t rent it to me anymore. I sold the potatoes at thirty cents a hundred and I sold the sugar beets for three dollars and eighty-five cents. I went camping with Russell Marriott, Roy Hodson and Clyde Covington, they were cousins, and myself. We got up there we slept way out in the wild and the first night, we had our own food and some blankets and stuff. We camped out there the one night. The next night we came in and we were still out quite a ways from the camping grounds so we pulled up there and the car was like this. We made the bed here and we had plenty of food. The running board was on the outside there. We put some food under those running boards. Clyde Covington wouldn’t sleep outside, he was scared, so he slept in the back seat. Russell slept here and Roy Hodson here and me here. Our heads right by the running board of the car. I woke up for some reason, I guess by the noise. I woke up and it was just coming daylight. I woke up and I could hear something. I sat up in bed and I looked about—oh judging thirty feet from where we were sleeping there was a black bear and it was standing facing us and it was growling. I think that was what woke me up, it was growling. I woke up and I looked up there and she was standing on all four feet facing us. I said to these guys, “Hey! Do you want to see something?” “Nah,” they slept. They finally woke up and Roy Hodson was in the middle, he raised up and he saw that bear and he went right down in and pulled the covers over him. Clyde Covington was in the car and he was jumping around like a squirrel in there and Russell was over here. I looked that thirty feet away and they got calmed down a little and that bear just kept growling. I reached around here and Uncle Will and Russell and Woodrow and them had just shingled the barn on the farm over there and they had the shingle—so I took one of the shingling hatches that they had and put it under my pillow. I reached around and I thought, “Will I give that bear time to move?” She didn’t want to move. I think it was a female bear. So I reached around and I felt there and I got that hatchet in my hand and took a hold of the handle of it. A hatchet is a long blade but it is narrow. I got up on my left knee and that bear still stayed there and she kept growling, and I would say it was twenty-five feet. I got up on my knee and I looked at that and thought, “Maybe if I throw that I can pin her right between the eyes.” When I brought my hand up like that, that bear whirled around but it was too far gone. I brought it back like that, she whirled around, and I let it go just as hard as I could throw it and it stuck up right the side of her tail. The full length of the blade went right in her. She ran about twenty-five feet with her hind legs looked like they were going faster than her front ones. She was hunched up but it was a female bear. She ran about twenty-five or thirty feet and the hatchet fell out. But it stuck in her that long. I jumped out of bed and run out there and got it. It was covered in blood all over the hatchet. I brought it back and showed it to them. She never came back. We gathered up camp and right here, she had been in there before, and never woke anybody up. I think she had a cub—I am satisfied she had a cub bear back—a bear will come and get the food and leave the cub back there. Right here by Russell Marriott’s head, here was the car, that high and right under the running board by his head we had some bacon and a little sack of sugar, maybe a five pound and half of it was gone. That bear had come and reached in right the side of his head and took that little sack of sugar and we traced it and it had sprinkled a little sugar all over here and there. It had torn the sack a little. All the way out there was a little bit of sugar. She had taken that—she had to get within six inches of his head but she must have reached in with her paw and got that sack with the sugar in and brought it out and took it. Then she fed the cub. That is how close she had come to that kid’s head and never woke him up. We never saw the bear again.