Boys, boys, boys

Teenager in the 70s

The year I turned thirteen, my parents moved us down to a canyon area in northeastern Utah called Willow Creek. It was owned by the Ute Indian Tribe and my father was the ranch foreman. Only one other family lived near us, about twenty miles away, in a property we had to drive through to get to the tribal lands.

They lived there in the summer and ran cows on their land. I think my dad used to talk to him about the best way to care for cattle. The Young family had two twin boys, one blond and one a redhead, who were our ages. My sisters were already interested in boys so having two young cowboys who had all of the right muscles and like to walk around without shirts when we were there was something any girl would sigh over.

It was hard work living so far away from civilizaton. In the spring when the snow melted, the land would be six inches of mud. We couldn’t drive the cars through the dirt roads until the summer sun burned the land and harden the road.

We had a small gas-powered electric generator for the refrigerator and maybe for some lights in the evening. We had gas tanks in the yard that were filled by the gas company twice a year for the farm vehicles and a propane tank for the stove. We had a cistern on the top of the hill, which regularly would get mice drowning in it, which made the water undrinkable so we had to haul in a drinking water. If we ran out in the winter, we would scoop up the snow and boil it on the stove.

At first we would haul our clothes out about once every two weeks and wash them in a laundromat. It took us two and a half hours to drive one way so we did all of our grocery shopping. My father made four hundred dollars a month, which at the time meant we were rolling in dough.

It was a hard life in many ways. As the oldest I was given the chores like washing the clothes in the ditch water, making the bread, and cleaning up after the toddlers. At the time we had one toddler who was filling a diaper and a baby on the way.

So I had no time for boys. My sisters may have worked hard. As the saying goes, we are the heroes in our own stories. What I do remember about them is that they loved to giggle about the Young boys. Yes, their last name was Young.

It wasn’t until I was fourteen just before my brother Calvin was born that I burned for a boy. I don’t remember his name, it was so long ago, but I do remember the embarrassment when he sat next to me and asked me my name. I think I turned bright red. I’m sure the boys in our Sunday school class teased him for weeks. He never tried to talk to me again. I think I carried that torch for a few months.

When our Dad realized that the girls were finally seeing boys as something other than annoyances, he made it clear that we wouldn’t be allowed to date until we were sixteen. Living so far away from those dangerous creatures was fortunate for him. My sisters were not so happy about only seeing a boy here or there on Sunday if we could get to church. God willing and the creek didn’t rise.

The year I turned sixteen my dad lost his job with the tribe. They wanted a tribal member to be the ranch foreman so we moved closer to civilization. We still lived a few miles north of the reservation and our neighbors were closer— walking distance if you didn’t mind walking a few miles.

By this time I had been raising my brother Calvin for about two years. There is a story there. It made me look like a young mother to the boys in the area instead of a girl, ready to date. So there were no boyfriends and no prospects. My sisters were holding hands with the neighbor boys and I suspect stealing a kiss or two.

Then just after my birthday I was asked to go out on a date with one of the Hullinger boys. I said yes. I remember that it was fun. We went to a burger place, ate, saw a few people we knew and then he took me home. I remember worrying that he would want to kiss me at the door. Instead he shook my hand and said he had a nice time.

A few days later I found out that my parents had arranged the date. I was mortified and he didn’t ask me out again.

So I did have a few crushes on a couple more guys. And I did date another guy named Robert. We liked to go places, talk, and dance. He finally came to me after a few years of dating and told me he was marrying someone else. He was more a friend by that time than anything else. I wished him luck. I knew the girl and he would need it. I still hear from him once in awhile. His first marriage didn’t work out, but he is still married to a woman in Idaho. I wish him luck.

I knew girls who became pregnant at fourteen. I refused to be one of them. My drive to leave the Uintah Basin was stronger than my need to date. As I got older, and perused the Mormon boys in SLC, I realized eventually that I wasn’t looking for a boy anymore. What I wanted was a man.

I knew that if I married someone from Utah and especially from the Uintah Basin that I wouldn’t fulfill my need for adventure and travel. That drive led me to the Navy and in a round about way, it led me to Otto.

To my parents, I was the stubborn child. To my brothers, I am the guiding light. To my sisters, I am the rival. To myself, I am grateful that I had a goal and I stuck to it even when I was distracted by the boys.