Life History of Marcel F. Lauper
Speaking of thrills, we are going to have to discuss Christmas on the Farm just a bit. I cannot conceive of any president, or any son of nobility whatsoever, children in a rich man’s palace, or anyone in the world having much more fun than we did at Christmas time. Now, mind you, we thought this was the one time of year we could indulge without our poor mother having to pay the price. Actually, nothing was farther from the truth, insofar as our dear parents were concerned. Christmas time entailed a great deal of heartache, worry, planning and frustrations for them, in trying to answer to some of our mythical dreams. It was our childish faith and belief; and unbelievably, mother was somehow able, in a large measure, to make many of our dreams come true. It seems, as I remember it, that every desire of my very young boyish heart came true each time. Isn't that incredible; but of course, we did not have the sophisticated yearnings and desires that now exist. Suffice it to say, I have no bad memories of my Christmases as a very small boy. Our dear mother planned, pinched, connived, scrimped, stayed up late in sewing, or did whatever was necessary to be the Santa Claus of our lives. Now I know she watched for the post-man with bated breath (for the orders always were sent in late), and for letters from some of the relatives such as Uncle Julius Sorensen, and always there was a package from her dear friends the Elswoods, and often from Uncle Harry and Aunt Edith with hand-me-down clothing. Even though the packages came late, we enjoyed our delayed Christmas all the more. I will mention only one Christmas when I wanted a bee bee gun, a trap, and a knife. As usual, I had my difficulty in getting to sleep the night before, doing everything possible to induce sleep for I was told that if Santa came and found me awake, he would pass me by. Our socks were hung on the foot of the old iron bed. Knowing exactly where each of our socks was hung, our eyes fell immediately to that spot in the morning. The sight of a colorful package, a new toy, or the rattle of some little unknown token was and is indescribable to those of us on the farm. I awakened at about 5 a.m. to see my gun leaning against the bed then to pull the double 0 trap from my sock, and to find the knife in the toe, along with some candies and nuts and an apple. Oh, to this moment I can feel my ecstasy. I awakened the other children, telling, "Santa has come", and we looked out the windows, unencumbered by drapery, to see a new blanket of snow had covered the tracks of his sleigh. Then I ran to tell my dear weary mother that Santa had been here, and how kind he had been. Another part of the traditional Christmas was on Christmas Eve to attend a Church service at the Ward house and Santa would make a preliminary visit with a few goodies. I can see us now, dressing up in warm clothing to board the buggy to drive to that party. Then upon returning home, we'd usually have our family treats, doughnuts maybe. Then I, with someone else, was sent out to the shed to procure hammers and wrenches or anything to enable us in nut cracking. Then we'd all assemble around that old table, a sturdy one, and mother would divide the nuts and candy. This was a once-in-a-life time, kinda free-for-all! We seemed to be able to eat our fill, no one inhibited!
Now I'm nine years, or nearly ten, for it is summer time in the beet fields when I discussed Santa Claus with Alice. She opened up and revealed the whole secret, contributing some interesting stories of the past of how she had been in on the conspiracy and much of the hard work. Alice felt it was now high time that I learned the facts, and this was very appropriate. She told how mother had worked to create that beautifully clever little black stuffed horse, with genuine horse-hair mane, which I received one Christmas and which served many of us for several years as a prized plaything --giving details of how much material and effort had gone into the making. Contrast that with my six year-old granddaughter, Lynette, who brought her parents to their knees and had them confess all about the Santa story. As I've previously indicated, my young world was quite different --I, almost ten years as compared to Lynette at six ---to learn these facts. It reminds me of a story that Dennis, Ralph and I often chuckle about concerning a mature but backward student found in a classroom with ever so much younger children; and the caption goes "Why don't they make this mutt shave?"
High on the list of traditions observed during our farm life days were dates of Fourth of July, Pioneer Day and sometimes Labor Day. We saved and scrimped and planned for our own little home-type celebration for we did not go into Delta to participate with communities. Alice, Viola, Dennis, even Ralph, although he was pretty young for some of those years, and I would set up our country store, with playhouse and playthings. Some of the precious items we tried to secure for our store were oranges, at times a banana or two, a chocolate bar a piece (maybe), graham crackers, Postumn and/or root beer to be served up in the girls' play dishes. All of these commonplace items of today were seldom tasted by us except on an annual or at most, semi-annual basis. We would savor these goodies throughout the day, taking turns behind the counter of the 'play store', or serving at the makeshift table. The sturdy express wagon was brought into play, being loaded up with 'things' and people, to make little make-believe trips. At evening time, if we were lucky, we might have a few firecrackers and sparklers. It was fun! Again, I'll digress by stating I have been in Berlin, Germany, to witness the most spectacular fire works display of my life, occasioned by the time Adolph Hitler had returned from a visit with Mussolini in Italy! Then too, I've seen fabulous displays at the fairgrounds, but most memorable to me along this line, was in having my own sparkler and a few firecrackers there in our own little farmyard, Sugarville, Utah. Those were my earliest recollections of the holidays, and later we moved on to attending the public gatherings, at times over to the Sugarville meeting house yards, to joining in the patriotic service, later the rodeo--including hot dogs, popcorn, melons, and community festivities. Later in the evening there might be a boxing match, where sometimes brother Serge was featured as a participant. I remember at one time I was able to purchase a ticket to attend a match at Delta, where Serge opposed Leigh Abbott in six rounds to a decision in Serge's favor. I was thrilled to bump the person sitting next to me and say, "That's my brother".
My first Church job was there in Sugarville Ward when they made me secretary of the M.I.A. This was incredible, for scarcely anyone could read my writing--including myself, but I was faithful and diligent, even though no one could really check up --a good experience. All this while, my dutiful parents were teaching me principles of the Gospel and faith in God. Also to recognize the Divinity of Jesus Christ. I represented my Ward to speak to the subject of the M.I.A. theme one year, and it was "We Believe In The Divine Mission and the Divinity Of Jesus Christ". To this day, I remember with vividness my addressing myself to that subject. Our dear parents taught all of us to pray, and there were times when our prayers were sincere pleas. We learned to depend upon prayer.
I have to confess there were many arguments in our home. My mother and father had disagreements galore. All was not complete bliss, but all in all, I always wanted to be home and still revere that place. When I occasionally visited friends to stay overnight (I recall a visit with Ray Smith in Delta), I always longed to be home --even before it was time to go. I felt best in that worn, sometimes unkempt, but warm place with my brothers and sisters and parents whom I loved.
I will recount here a poignant family experience, which took place nearly 55 years ago, and yet I remember the details clearly. I saw the man, Bill Baker, walking up the road, approaching our home where he met my father with the message ·'Your son, John, is dead". My father was stunned and dejectedly walked back into the house where he sadly passed on the tragic news. Later I was to see my brother, John's body, stretched out on that same table in our 'multi-purpose' room (as it would be called today), to be prepared for burial. I remember viewing the injured mark on his stomach area. John had left home, going up into Tremonton to secure work for money to be used to go on to school. While assisting on a ranch there, he was accidentally kicked by a horse that he was working with. He suffered a tragic death within a few days. I saw him buried at Sutherland, Utah, around the Labor Day weekend. It was cold and blistery, even that early in the year, and I remember the sound of the dirt being thrown in on that coffin (my first experience with death), along with the painful sobs of our mother as we left the grave site. And this pathos was to be followed nearly three years later when another friend, Jim Colby, came to our home to announce another very sad happening. As I came near the house, Alice informed me, “Felix has been hurt". I walked over to Mr. Colby, asking if things were bad. This man replied, "You bet, it's bad". Felix and Ivan had been going for a pleasant duck-hunting spree, but before getting into it really, Felix's gun had dropped from the running board of the Model T ford, discharging as the butt of the gun hit the frozen earth. Felix received full impact of the explosion in his throat, neck, and chest, leaving buckshot throughout. I can see myself now, out on the North end of our little home quarters. I was outside, kneeling on a patch of ice. but earnestly praying for God's help. Very soon I was in the Delta doctor's office, where Felix was given 'first aid' before being sent to a Salt Lake City hospital. I watched him there, breathing through a metal tube, positioned through his throat wounds. Mother announced that "Marcel is here”, and Felix turned his large blue and kindly eyes toward me. His warm glance melted me to tears so I turned away, and that's the last time I saw him with any life. Even to this day, there is a certain shrill train whistle that takes me back to that Delta train station as I stood with some of the family watching them load the carefully and warmly packed body of Felix to take him to a Salt Lake hospital. Mother accompanied Felix in the train and stayed at his bedside until his passing. Later, our Sugarville Bishop, Wells J. Robertson, drove his covered grocer truck to Salt Lake to bring the body home. Father and I drove with him on this trip.
Now here I am going to digress from continuity in my story, giving some random thoughts--citing incidents that stand as interesting, painful, sad, happy, or just unforgettable memories. While Felix was enrolled at Delta High School, he bunked in a little upstairs room in town. To me, at the time, the room seemed quite a spot away from home. Now I recall how really bereft it was of all comforts. It was my privilege to spend two or three nights in Felix's room ---once it was occasioned by him going out of town with his football team. I found little to eat in the place, for Felix had so little money to scrape by on. There was a jar of mother's preserves which I combined with a 7-cent loaf of bread from Sewell's Market, and it tasted every bit as good as angel food cake to me. I so enjoyed watching him play a couple of football games---what a big thrill! These memories are coming at random, but again the Fourth of July comes to mind, and I remember the pretty hats and dresses that my sisters sometimes had for this occasion. It seems to me the straw hats were literally covered with pretty flowers, or decorated with pompoms--in colorful style. When they had a new summer dress, it was usually accompanied by patent leather slippers. It seems to me they looked rich! However infrequent it might have been, a few very very pretty instances remain with me, and stand out in my memory.
Then there were the times of homecoming of my two older brothers, Serge and Ivan. I always thought of Ivan as being handsome as a movie star, and such a thoughtful, generous brother; how we welcomed his visits. With pride I mention that Serge James was the very first missionary from our little Sugarville Ward. He also courted the best girls the area offered. When he returned from his mission he could and did give a wonderful spiritual talk in our afternoon Sabbath meeting, as well as an interesting travelogue during a party given in his honor. I recall he sang and quoted verse --- a most talented exhibition. I've always been exceedingly proud of these two fine brothers.
I must digress even further back, for I must now recall a poignant incident, which should have been included with my early childhood memories at Penrose, Utah. This concerns my dear mother during the winter of 1916 when she was gravely ill. I remember being taken, as a very tiny boy, to see my mother in a hospital --this was supposedly my last time to see her. Father and other family members had been praying fervently but I hardly realized what was happening, yet the picture of that high, high bed, hospital, and my mother, remains vividly with me.
Now, other flashes in my memory remind me of church activities in Sugarville. I was deacon quorum president, as well as teachers’ quorum president; I did Ward teaching but cannot recall my companion. My first recollection of a partner, was my father -- but that came later when we represented Camarillo Branch in California. I attended Seminary in connection with my high school days in Delta, Utah, and gave the graduation talk at the commencement exercises. Later, I gave this same talk before the Stake Conference, to which President Heber J. Grant attended. The first General Authority to whom I listened was President George Albert Smith, and he told us to 'smile, cheer up, we ought to be the happiest people on earth'. That is my earliest recollection of hearing a General Authority, although I suppose I was in meetings with them at an earlier age without realizing that much about it.
Now I'd like to spend a bit of time talking of memorable foods of the farm life. It no doubt will bring smiles to readers of this story, but to me there were and are memorable foods. There was our Dad's delicious homemade, spicy sausage, which makes my mouth water even now. I helped somewhat with the butchering, and then cleaned some of the gut ---a special treatment making it ready for sausage casing. Dad had an unusual knack for seasoning --having brought some of this 'know-how' from the Old Country, and he was able to prepare a wonderful mix. We had acquired a small sausage-stuffing machine, which ground the meat; then later with an applied attachment, the meat was stuffed into the casing. I'll not live long enough to forget that delectable taste; and this was agreed to by many. With this, we often had boiled, plain, rice; and I liked it ---even liked to scrape the bottom of the pot where some of the rice had burned on. Another 'feast' was bread and milk--I still enjoy it! Sometimes we used the fresh warm milk, brought directly in from the cow. Then there was mother's hot bread, buns, or whatever with butter. I took the crusts when I could --Wow. Mother's birthday cookies ---a plain sugar dough, rolled thin and cut into rounds with a cup or any improvisation, were unforgettable. Some family members, including my daughter Margaret, have made cookies in my later life, which resemble enough to stir that happy memory. Oh yes, that peach jam--a kind of thick, lumpy conserve was delicious! A pot of beans, with maybe a ham hock, was a welcome aroma on a wintry day when returning from school. During the appropriate season, we had fried spring chicken for our Sunday fare, and it couldn't be beat! Even oatmeal mush was enjoyable, which I can't truthfully say of the germade mush it was usually 90% lumps as I recall. At top production time in the hen yard, I've fried two to four eggs for a sumptuous repast, extravagantly seasoned with homegrown parsley and green onions. To this date, I find that tasty offering hard to match. Also from our garden, we had delicious corn, along with homemade butter; also, baked squash. We always produced some lettuce, which we like to ‘harvest’ at its most tender moment, and ate it with cream and sugar. We raised no fruit, so tomatoes were the nearest approach, but these turned out good. Dad usually bought a load of Jonathan applies each year and they were placed in a 'Pitt --a special cellar of straw. These tasty apples, along with spuds would come from the 'pit' during the cold winter months. We even managed to store ice in another straw cellar to be used for ice cream making during the later months. This stirs my memory of a most delectable treat --homemade ice cream was unbeatable! I happily remember the special small cut crystal dishes used for this rare dessert ---probably the prettiest dishes we ever had.