LOVE LETTER TO GRANDMA FROM GRANDPA

Kids today I was going through some old letters and stories that Paris had written this is a valentine that he wrote March 2 2003. Thought you would like to read. So I’m sharing it with you. No crying. This was written after Paris had learned to type and he was blind. I copped it as he wrote it.


My Dearest Sweetheart,

As I sit here today, contemplating our lives together. It is obvious to Me that all must have been watched, planned, and closely helped by loving Angels above. Consider our ever meeting in the first place. Your family, leaving a small farm town in Missouri, and somehow winding up in Mesa. You, growing up as you did, strong, independent, but with an open mind. Your association with friends who were Mormons, and friends of mine. You noticing me in that busy High School. The chance that I would be ready for a relationship, and that you would be ready to begin a new one, that I would go to that birthday party. All of these most improbable happenings that brought us together on that fateful September evening. Consider even a part of it happening and it is unbelievable. It just couldn’t happen, but it did. Thank You Heavenly Father, It did.

When that evening of meeting was ended, my heart was like a glowing ember that would never burn in an other hearth. When we came together a few days later for our first date, it was like the two glowing embers burst into a fire so hot, our lives melted together, All of our focus was for each other. People around us could not believe that it was happening. Two so different were not supposed to fall in love. But we did. With the pulling and yanking we both received from friends and relatives Many young couples would have been ripped apart, it just make our bonding more secure, tempered like the finest steel, and ready to meet the blows of life to be overcome in our future.

We have climbed, climbed the hills and walked the valleys for nearly half a century now. And our heart still burns brightly. Much warmth has been given back to this cold world. Many other warm hearts are burning because of the sparks of the children that we have sent out. I love you honey and I always will.

Paris

White Family Reunion 2007

WHERE EVER I HANG MY HAT- By Paris James White

Looking back on all the places that I have called home, it has truly been a wonderful life. I was born in Mesa Arizona, at a small nursing home, West of Chandler Highway and North of Southern. Mother went there early in the morning, but the Doctor was not yet there. In an attempt to delay the birth, the Nurses cruelly held her legs together, causing much pain. As a result, I was born with a badly miss shapen head. It had been forced into a point or ridge, which remained for several weeks. Mother was so worried that she piled weights on my little pointy-head for weeks trying to get it back to normal. But I still think that is the reason for no hair on my head. Mom and Dad were staying with Grandma and Grandpa White at the time, at a home on North Extension Ave. in Mesa, Arizona. Shortly thereafter we moved up to Eager, where we lived with Mom's folks, (Grandpa and Grandma Paris Ashcroft)-Grandpa Paris built us a small frame and stucco house on the corner of his lot. Uncle Henry and Dad dug a well next to the place, and with the addition of a one-hole outhouse, we had a home. When I was about 15 months old, we moved to Long Beach, California. My little sister Patsy was born there. One day I escaped. My worried folks found me at the police station happily eating an ice-cream cone with very messy pants. So began my life of crime. We moved back to Eager, here my sisters Marlene and Janice were born. I remember Aunt Eula driving all the way up from Mesa, to see the babies in her Model A Ford. The road was much longer, and narrower, with many more curves in those days.
We eventually left Eager. Moving to many small homes around Mesa, and even living for a while with Uncle Joe and Aunt Ethal in Tempe. Dad was a traveling salesman, I recall a little of Duncan, and then Benson, Arizona as well. We lived in a small Motor Court, with cabins surrounding a beautiful pond shaded with giant cottonwood trees. What a wonderful place for kids to get into trouble. Patsy and I caught giant Gold fish from the pond and tried to cook and eat the poor things over a small fire. I have hated fish ever since. We played hide and seek in an old refrigerator, had fun killing ants with a whole barrel of DDT that we found, and tried to electrocute each other by touching a bare electric wire, which we could reach by climbing a cottonwood tree near our cabin. Our Landlords Daughter touched it a little too long and couldn't let go. She was shaking violently until she swung from the wire, and fell to the ground. I told you I was always in trouble. I really feel that a whole troupe of Guardian Angels is still active until this day.
After being baptized in the small close-by town of Pomerene, I remember Mom giving me a big hug as I stood wet from the baptism and telling me that now I was as clean as a little baby. It wasn't very long until we moved to Tucson. We lived in a small house on the outskirts of town. There were many things to do. I explored places like dry washes, desert dumps, and a cement conduit where tramp's slept. There were many interesting neighbors there. One family had peacocks and parrots, which I watched with awe. Caring my sister, Marlene piggyback, I ripped on the sidewalk, and broke my left arm at the elbow. That was a long hot summer with a cast on. But I healed O.K.
We then moved back to Mesa. My Grandparents (Lizzie and James White) gave Dad a lot at West First Ave. Dad then purchased an old house, which had been a music room and a snack bar on the grounds of Irving School in Mesa. It was moved to our lot. It became our first real home. There were very high ceilings, and three rooms. A front room, a kitchen, and a very large room with a toilet in the corner. Dad had a wall built around that, and it became our bathroom. The ceiling was about four feet above that, so Dad removed that low ceiling and put a ceiling over the bathroom and with some stairs that became John and Gary's bedroom. The Girls slept near the bathroom wall. Mother put up a curtain across the middle, and that became my Parent's bedroom. I was left to shift for myself. I slept on the couch, then in the back yard during the summer. (Using the old ceiling boards, together with all the lumber I could scrounge up. I constructed a small room on the back of the house.) It sure wasn't much to look at, but with a cot, I had my own room. I nearly burned the whole place down one winter night, when an electric space heater was placed too close to my bed, and caught my blankets on fire. I smelled the smoke, and quickly stomped out the blankets. This home was were I finished high school, and started college at A.S.U.
I sure did look forward to a little brother to play with, but first came Patsy Jean, Marlene, Janice, and finally my brother John, but by then it was too late for him to be my buddy. My sisters were cute enough, but nearly useless as buddies. When my brother John finally came along he was more of a nuisance than someone to play with. And when Gary came I was nearly grown. These little guys really wanted to be my buddies, but I just felt like they were little kids usually of another generation and under foot. In my circle, there were no boys exactly my age. They were all either a couple of years younger or, as is the case with my good friend Joe O'Barr, a year or so older. I have often wondered about this, and have reached the conclusion that it mush have been a result of the great depression. There were just fewer babies born in 1935. I think that people just lost hope by then, the depression had started in October 1929, and really didn't end until World War II got the country finally rolling. So when I came along, things were pretty bleak.
My good friends and buddies while I was growing up were; Joe O'Barr, Lannie Horne, Karl Mortensen, Grant Smith, Arch Willis, Allen Klienman, Jesse O'Barr and Pat Goodman. Others were not so good friends, like Charlie Sutton whom I would have a steady fight with every time we saw one another. He would box pretty good, but he had a habit of biting on his finger as he slugged away. I couldn't box very well, but was a fair wrestler. So I would always take a few good licks till I could get a hold of him, and then it was my fight. I got so upset with his constant bullying that I would have killed him (or at least tried). If some of his friends hadn't pulled me off a few times. After many years away from home I was so surprised to return and find old Charlie to be an Elders Quorum President and really nice guy. So I guess people really can change. If Old Charlie could, any one can! We played a lot of war games, it was during World War II, and for the years thereafter, the Army or Marines was the goal of all young men. Anyway, it was tough to find kids my age. As a result, I spent my days as the gang leader of a bunch of younger kids, doing my own thing, or tying to tag along with older boys. I'm sure this had a great influence on who I am, and how I have behaved towards others in my life. I regret how I treated my little brothers, usually ignoring them, or worse, teasing them. I wasn't a very good influence upon my younger friends either, leading them into all kinds of mischief. I have always had a certain aloofness, which people seemed to take as being stuck up, or a better than thou attitude. I have never thought of myself as being that way, generally feeling rather insecure, and somehow not quite as good as other people, perhaps because of these feelings, and being so poor as a child, I have been driven, all my life, to be, or at least appear to be, the best at whatever I did. In some ways, this has been good, it has also created problems in my life. People didn't really like someone who thinks he's better than they are. It's hard to be friends with one who doesn't seem to mix. I suppose that it all comes down to just you are what you are, you become what you become.

SCHOOL DAYS

I would like to record for some of my posterity some of my early memories. Of great influence in my life, were my Dad and my Dear Aunt Eula. Both were school teachers. My Father knew, and told me many times, that I could, and I'd better do better. My Aunt Eula did something about it. She made sure that I received every educational benefit. This included Nursery School, summer tutoring, this I didn't mind at all as we always went for hamburgers and cherry coke afterwards. She had sort of adopted us kids, as she never married. Due to my father's many jobs, I attended Alma School, Tempe Grade School, Eager Elementary, Tucson Grade School, Mesa Lincoln and Franklin, Irving, and Mesa High School; I took all of the art classes available. I followed that with nearly a year at ASU, and then many years of Military Schools. I graduated as an Honor Student, from Air Traffic Control School, and was retained as an instructor. This was at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi Mississippi. After losing my left eye in an accident I had to change career fields. Back to school studying Electronics, and then a school specializing in ATC Radar, after graduating Honor Student, I was given the choice of bases in the West and closest was Ellsworth AFB. The next school I went to was at Fort Manmouth, New Jersey. I was the Honor graduate, receiving my award from the Commanding General of Fort Monmouth, the Army Electronics School. I am not writing these things to boast, only saying to you that you have great intelligence potential in you, apply it, and there is no end to your possibilities. You can do it, there are no scrubs in our Family. I say this with Love.

IMPRESSIONS OF EAGER-ROUND VALLEY DAYS

Much of My Life has been centered around a beautiful piece of Arizona called Round Valley. That is the spot where my life began. Mother's folks lived there. Dad was the Principal of the High School. They courted there and then traveled to Salt Lake to be married in the Temple. As a natural result, I began my journey on Earth in Eager. I don't know what happened to get me down to Mesa for my birth, as I am quite sure Mother would rather have been with her Mother and other loved ones for that event. Shortly after, I was taken back to Eager for a joyful showing to all, as the first child and the first Grand Child in the Family. My Eager was a small Mormon community nestled in the White Mountains. The elevation is around seven thousand feet, so the summers are cool and just about perfect with the smells of a sawmill and wood smoke in the air. The community streets lined with Cottonwood and Poplar trees. Nearly every home had an orchard of apple trees which, if the early frost didn't get them, produced delicious apples of every kind. Also, around every home can be found a well for household water, plenty of happy kids, and chicken's scratching around for bugs and other chicken delights. There were also barns with hay, a cow shed with at least one family milk cow, and assorted other out buildings. It was a wonderful place for a child to grow up. The kids always had plenty of chores, which included driving the cows down the hill to the community pasture, in the mornings, and bring them home in the evenings. There was always a garden to be weeded, wood to be cut, and kindling to be gathered. The wood box next to the family cook stove had to be filled, the cow milked and chickens taken care of. But, as kids always do, we could find plenty of time for play. An egg, found in the barn and taken to the store, would buy a nickels worth of candy. I remember a childhood filled with good things, exciting things. Like laying in a big, many blanketed bed in our little home in Eager and listening every night to the coyotes crying on the rodeo hill back behind the house. Playing in the Bishop's store house, the barn, in the hay, and setting up a fort in an old abandoned cabin in a field of sunflowers and preparing for battle with a neighborhood band of boys using flippers, bows, arrows, and B.B. guns. The battles were furious, but somehow on one was every seriously hurt. I remember taking my 22 riffles, my bicycle, some blankets, and my old dog and heading down Extension Road in Mesa out to the old powerhouse. Thee was nothing but desert there then, and camping out overnight. About 3a.m. some noise in the underbrush scared me so bad that I started firing my 22 wildly into the trees, I found out the next day that it was just a bunch of horses and I don't know if I hit anyone of them or not. (NO DEAD HORSES)

DEATH RIDES AND HIGHWAY

When I was about 13 and living in Mesa I made a little car using parts from a motor scooter and miscellaneous sheet metal and angle iron. Which looked like a Model A Ford with one wheel in the back. I was very proud of the little car and drove it all over Mesa, including to Mutual. On my way home I decided to go down main street because this was the shortest way home. It was dark and I had no lights or breaks. I was about to turn to my home road when I noticed red lights behind me. Doing my best to turn off the engine and stop by dragging my feet, I finally got stopped. From behind me came a great big policeman, who sternly listed all my violations, including no driver's license, unlicensed vehicle, and none of the required safety features. I was so scared I knew I was going to prison. Unknown to me the policeman had recorded the whole thing on a tape recorder. After turning off the tape recorder he sternly told me to go home and never take it on the road again.
About a week later the family was tuned into KOY in Phoenix and a program called,
"Death Rides the Highway" came on the air and I was the main offender, you would here me in my little boys voice saying, "No Sir, I don't have a license. Oh no!"

JUST LILLY AND ME

I was a senior in High School when Lilly first came into my circle, this pretty little sophomore came up to me and wanted me to write in her yearbook. I was very flattered by this obviously smitten young thing. She was obviously smitten with my many charms. I think I drew a little cartoon in her book with some silly little caption about maybe getting together at some future time. How little did I know? In those days I was still getting around on bicycle, but my buddy, Karl Mortenson, had a car. We had gone to the movies at the Mesa Theater when we noticed a group of girls sitting down in front of us. Having each other for courage, we moved down behind them, flirting with them. I noticed the most outgoing girl among them, and focused all of my considerable charm on her. I shortly asked her if she would like a ride home after the show. Now, if she had said yes, I had no idea what I would have done with Karl, but she turned me down. But, she did it in such a way that left me knowing that there was hope for future developments. After that summer, I started my freshman year at ASU and I was now a college man. I even had a car, a 1936 Ford with fender skirts, a fresh paint job, and a neckers knob on the steering wheel. I was very cool, even before that word meant what it does today. Anyway, one evening I got a telephone call from a girl in my ward, inviting me to a birthday party. Not for her, but for one of her girl friends, one I might possibly remember, a Miss Lillian Crigler. A surprise party for a girl I hardly knew. No gift required, just please come. I was very flattered, obviously my considerable charms were coming into demand. At the party were many of Lillian's friends, we had a great time, and then we piled into one of the cars and drove down to a A & W Root Beer stand where we met Lilly's then boyfriend, Gene, who was mad, because he had to work. Then we drove out to the Mesa City Cemetery with Lillian sitting on my lap, we were very crowded. As I hugged that sweet young thing, laughing, joking, just having a wonderful time, I fell in love. I didn't know much about dating, about having a serious romance, but I was falling seriously, deeply, and permanently in love. It took a few weeks for Lillian to break Gene's heart. I remember his picture remaining in her living room for some while, but Lillian and I began seeing each other nearly every day. I think our first real date was a picnic on the slopes of Camel-Back Mountain. We had a wonderful time, and this soon became a pattern for our times together. Lilly's father became very angry with her, he did not like Mormons, and told Lilly she could not see me and continue to live in his home. If you know my sweetheart at all, you know what happened. She moved out. We were just thrown together more. I soon forgot about school, and everything else, but we started talking about the future, and I remember telling Lilly about finishing college, and about going on a mission. I didn't see how I could possibly get married before the age of 28 or so. Little did I know? Then Lilly told me that Gene had asked her to marry him. I kept my shock under control and told her that if that was what she wanted, to go ahead, I left, Once again, that was the wrong, or right thing to say to Lilly, depending on how you look at it. It wasn't long before I thought I was in a whirlwind, Lilly was everywhere, she was at my MIA meetings, laughing and having a good time with her girl friends, all of whom seemed to be in MY WARD. It also wasn't long before we were right back together again, this time for keeps. It wasn't long either, before my Dad told me I either had to marry the girl, or leave town. I had no job, wasn't doing well in school, and could see only one way to go. I would join the Air Force. I had always wanted that anyway, so that is what we did. I say we, because Lilly was with me every step of the way. She hadn't been feeling too well, and had been to see a Doctor. She was told that it was an amoeba, nothing to worry about. So I went off to Texas. We later named that little stomach problem, Pamela.Lilly was my first real love, we had been totally committed to each other from nearly the first time we had met, and so there were never any regrets, things just worked out that way. We were married in San Antonio, Texas on the 24th day of July 1954. By the Bishop. I went to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio Texas. I was then shipped to Biloxi, Mississippi and Lilly and Pamela joined me and we became a family.
In Biloxi, we first lived in a small duplex quite a ways from the Base. I rode a bike to work and we enjoyed good friends and the Gulf Coast. Going out on a boat and fishing with a neighbor was great fun. We lived a simple life not having anything we didn't make ourselves, out of pine limbs and orange crates. After a while we moved to West End Homes, a public low cost housing development. We had many good friends, many of whom were members of the Church. We became active in the Ward there, and Lillian was baptized there. It was there when I built my first Radio Controlled Air Plane and tragically lost my left eye. We were living there when Randy was born, and because of the loss of my eye, I was forced to change my career field, and learned Electronics. We lived in a base housing unit after that, until an assignment came from Ellsworth A.F.B. in South Dakota. We bought a small homemade two wheel trailer, and pulled it to Arizona and then to South Dakota with our 1950 Ford. There we lived in an apartment near the school of Mines in Rapid City. Later we moved to a small rent house right off the end of the runway at Ellsworth A.F.B.
My Father became very ill and I received a Compassionate Transfer back to Arizona. I worked on the Radar at Luke A.F.B. out towards Wickenburg. The old Auxiliary Field was wonderful to work at, as a small crew of us was way out in the Desert with no one around but the desert critters. During the rainy season, we were flown to work in an Air Force Aircraft. Our family lived in Avondale, where our Vanessa was born. After about a year, we were shipped over seas to Japan. We were stationed at Itazuki AFB on Kyushu Island, near the large city of Fukuyoka. Our first home was off base in a Japanese built home, called Shire Baru. Our little Bonnie was born there, later we moved into a much larger Japanese home in Kasuga Baru. We soon moved to base housing where our little boy, Rulon was born. Our tour off duty was up in 1962.
We were sent back to the States, assigned to Otis A.F.B. on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. On our way through Arizona, Lillian and I received our Patriarchal Blessings, and went to the Mesa Temple for our family sealings and our Endowments. A short visit at home and then moved to Massachusetts.
While in Massachusetts we lived in a big two story home on Cranberry Hwy. In a town called Wareham. This was where our Rhonda was born. We were on Old Cape Cod for a number of years, and so we moved twice more. Our second home was out on the Cape in Cautamet, a cold and drafty old place, and then out to Otis A.F.B. in base housing. These were happy years making new friends, serving as Branch President in the Cape Cod Branch, a great Squadron, and many airplane Buddies.
My next assignment was kind of strange, first, going to an Army Satellite Communications School at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey where we lived in a Beach cottage by the Boardwalk, in Manasquan, New Jersey. I was the ranking man in my class, and so I had to march a large group of Air Force, Army, and Navy men to and from class. I was required to stay in the barracks for a while, and was very happy to finally get my family there. School was over in the spring, and we packed up with orders for a stay in Arizona, to be followed with orders sending me overseas. We purchased a home on West 6th Drive in Mesa. Once again, I went to work at Luke AFB. Working at the Radar site. After just getting settled down, I received orders for an unaccompanied tour at Dyabikir Turkey. After getting all packed, those orders were cancelled, and we received new orders for Brandywine, Maryland. We sold the house, and headed for the East Coast once again.
Brandywine was a small Air Force long haul receiver site, near Waldorf, Maryland. Lillian found us an old farmhouse on a run down grown over, wonderful tobacco farm. This was where I was ordained a High Priest, where we started our Twig, which is a very small Branch of the church, and where our son, Ronald was born.
After four years, we received orders for Aviano AFB, in Northern Italy. We flew from New York to Milan, Italy. From there, another flight to Venice, and then by van to Aviano. What a lovely place. Right up against the Swiss Alps. Near the Adriatic Ocean. And close to the City of Pordenony, where our Rachel was born in an Italian hospital. This is where Randy and I first tried Hang Gliding. This is where we met with the Italian Saints, with American families sitting on one side of the Chapel, and Italians on the other. We were able to live in a three story Italian Home with marble floors. We were in the small village of Roverado. The church bells awakened us on Sunday mornings, ringing all over the valley. The only word for it is Belisimo (beautiful). I developed skin cancer problems and was eventually sent back to Lackland AFB, in San Antonio, TX. Lillian and the children joined me, and after the operation, I was sent to Luke AFB again. We purchased a home in Mesa, on the corner of 8th Ave. and Elm Street. That is where I retired from the Air Force as a tired old Master Sergeant. I worked for Our Bishop, Moroni Mac Elhaney, as a Masonry Contractor Estimator and general Gofer.
After a very short year, No, it was almost two years during which our Pamela married David Morgan, our Vanessa married Burke Donaldson, Lillian and I served in the Alma Ward where I was Ward Clerk and Lillian worked in the Primary. I obtained work as a D.P.S. Communications Technician. After training, I received an assignment in Safford, AZ. Lillian and her Mother went ahead to find a house. They returned telling of an old house in Central, Arizona. Which would be perfect for our family. And as always, Lilly was right. We moved to Central, AZ. It turned out to be a house that had been moved down from Morenci many years before. There had been many tack-on additions, the roof had so many different angles and there was so many windows, it just looked strange. But, we loved it. Randy had been called on his mission while we were still in Mesa, and he departed for Japan. Our children started school in Thatcher, we began the long process of clean up, fix up, and this became our first real home. Our Son Rulon, died of cancer in 1977 and he is buried in Central.

MOUNTAINS OF ARIZONA

For many years, I was privileged to work on the mountains of Arizona. I would take the mountain roads to the Radio Sites in a truck in the summer and a truck with a snow cat in the winter.
All alone with my radios for company. I would meditate along looking at the beautiful scenery and getting paid for doing what I considered to be the best job in the world. Many the Gospel questions dwelt with, many the prayers offered on those windy roads. Many times, I would be the only soul on the whole mountain. With a few notable exceptions, I did not have many problems in the summer-time. However, one evening I was called out to go to Guthrie Mountain. I took Lilly with me, and after hitting a sharp bump; all the lights went out and stayed out. We made it to the Radio Site in the dusk, we did the work on the site and then started to travel down and that was a different matter. It was pitch dark, we started out, and I could not see the road. One wrong turn and it was hundreds of feet down off the side of the mountain. With Lilly holding a flashlight out of the window, we crept along. About halfway down, the flashlight went out. We faced either a cold night and wait for daylight, or some help would have to come. I called out on my Radio, and luckily got a Highway Parolman. Bob Sabin would be happy to come and help, but had no idea how to get there. So after directing Bob around many mountain turns, he arrived, and began leading us down the mountain. With his headlights ahead, and his taillights as our guide, we made it back to town. Thankful to be home again.
Lilly was brave enough to accompany me on many more trips up to the mountains, not nearly as scary. But, one dark and very snowy night on Mt. Graham we were in the Snow Cat, a tracked vehicle required in deep snow, we were heading down. The roads were drifted so badly, that they were invisible. I drove by aiming through the gaps where the roadway should have been. The lights all went out. Lilly was terrified. She screamed just in time for me to swerve us onto the road. Instead of down a steep slope, probably saving us from injury or worse. On another snowy occasion, I ran over a large snow covered log. Violently throwing the snow cat, and throwing Lilly right out the door. I was so busy, that I didn't even see her go. When I finally looked over, she was gone. Stopping the cat, I looked and hollered, Lilly. She answered from deep in a snow bank. "I'm here." Except for very bruised pride, she was fine.
It was my practice, to pull the snow cat just as high up on the Mountain as I could, unloading it off the trailer when the snow became too deep to go further. I would unload the cat from the trailer, lock the truck, take all the keys, and plow up the rest of the way in the Cat. As I arrived at the Site, I always had to dig down through up to four or more feet of snow reaching the door. There were two locks, very secure, needing unlocked, to enter the building. On two different occasions, when I reached for my keys, they were gone. I had shoveled so much snow they could have been anywhere. I could not get in the Building nor could I get back into my truck by going back down. I knelt in the snow, prayed with real intent. One final look at the door, and glory be, the keys were hanging from the lock. It was an answer to my prayer, and I cannot deny it. Another thankful prayer was given and I gratefully went to work. On another occasion, the snow had blocked the access gate, I had shoveled about three feet of snow there, just to go the last two miles to the site. When I got up to the site, and down to the door, my keys were again missing. Again a fervent prayer, but this time, no keys in the lock. After a vain search, I took the snow cat back down to the gate. There, lying on top of the snow that I had shoveled, lay the keys. In worldly circumstances, those keys would have been lost until the spring melts. I always felt closer to the Lord up there.
Going up the mountain often gave me more trouble than coming down. Trying to pull as high as possible before unloading the snow cat often got me in trouble. There are several steeply banked turns just about Turkey Flat. With people four wheeling it after every snowstorm. The roads became as slick as proverbial goose grease. Cover that with a foot of snow and it became a treacherous situation. I would often become stuck on the steep slope right after the turn. I usually put on my tire chains first, and if that didn't work, I would pull out the cable from the truck winch, and try and find a tree to hook it to. It often took me an hour or more, just to do these things. Using the winch drew down the battery so heavily, that the truck engine would often stall. Then I would be in trouble. After off loading the cat, I would use it's battery to get my engine going. Dear readers...please bear with me as I tell you these things. On one memorable day, all of this was done, and I was still stuck. To make matters worse, the truck was slipping towards the cliff. All of a sudden, as if pushed by a giant hand, my truck made a leap to the center of the road, and took off up the hill. Never had my prayers been answered so forcibly before. Another thanks giving prayer, and I was on my way to Lady Bug Saddle. All of this, of course, came to an end when I lost my eyesight. But, memories of that wonderful time will last forever. I feel that I should record at least one other miraculous event in my life. It was in the late Seventies, I was in the V.A. Hospital over in Tucson. The Doctors were going to operate on my right eye socket. I was terribly worried, as they had told me that I could loose my EYE. As the time drew near I began praying over and over that all would be well. They loaded me on the cart to take me to the operating room and I was still praying. It seemed that every bump of the wheels produced another prayer. Suddenly, a voice spoke to me. It was firm, it came into my mind, but not through my ears, the voice said, "Cease to trouble me with the problem, all will be well." A peace immediately came over me, I began to smile, and all my worries were gone, I realized that my constant Prayer had been answered so forcibly that I could never deny it. Most amazing of all was that I had actually troubled the Lord, from all of these things, and many, many more. I absolutely know that all of our Prayers are answered. All was well, and all still is, through all of my many operations, through all of the pain, nothing has ever happened to me that has not strengthened me. I am thankful for it ALL.

MY HOBBY==MODEL AIRPLANES

In my life, the making and flying of model airplanes has played an important role. As a very young lad, perhaps I was four or five, My Uncle Ronald was flying rubber powered free flight models. I remember watching Him and wanting so much to participate. I saved some pennies, and we ordered a small kit from Sears and Roebucks. I don't remember getting it built, just the excitement of getting it. My next memory is of a Motor Court in Phoenix, right across the street from the State Mental Hospital. Some boys, who lived in the court, were playing with model airplanes. It looked like so much fun. I begged my mom and dad to get me one. I prevailed, and Dad brought a kit home, which we tried to build on the kitchen table. We couldn't figure it out, so Dad paid one of the boys to build it. It was a rubber powered, balsa and tissue covered free flight. I think it was yellow. I remember playing with it until it was destroyed in Grandma White's backyard. So began the pattern of my life. Build it, dream about it, and then crash it. Most of these early attempts were during WWII, which began in December 1941 when I was just six years old. It was an exciting time, with reports of the battles on the radio every day, airplanes filling the skies over Mesa with Pilot training at Luke, Willy, and Falcon fields. We ran around the schoolyards with arms outspread, making airplane noise and pretending to shoot down each other in flames. No cowboy and Indian stuff for us. It was Japs and German, American good guys all day long. We collected scrap metal, old rubber tires and even string for the war effort. We bought war bones at school, filling out little stamp books with ten-cent war stamps. Everything bought in the stores was rationed, if you could find it at all. Anyhow, we flew little toss gliders, built model airplanes with cardboard and pinewood parts. Balsa wood was not available, very often. You couldn't get glue, so it was make our own glue using celluloid tooth brush handles and paint thinner. Some model kits came with a set of plans and a block of pinewood to be carved into a model. I also had to walk five miles through deep snow, but that's a different story.

While I was in Grade School I hung out down by old Mesa High School there was a hobby shop across the street. I would watch and listen as the boys ran their engines, talked about airplanes, and just seemed to have a great time. I remember watching as they strapped a Jetex C02 cartridge to a balsa stick and punctured it, aiming high in the sky, something went wrong, and it just fell over into the street, striking the pavement. It swooshed, and took off, heading right down the street. About two blocks away an old man was slowly crossing the street, suddenly spotting the rocket coming at a lethal speed. He jumped up in the air and the rocket went right under him. I'm sure that he was terrified, but to us watching, it was hilarious. I started building little cars, which could run down a string. We convinced the principal at Franklin grade school, to let me use the hall after school, and run my car down the hallway. When I punctured the jet it shot down the string, hit the end, and kept right on going out the door. Like a bullet. That was the end of that, except for the time that I put an ice pick through the shop roof with a Jetex powered airplane. Honestly, I thought an ice pick would make a great nose cone for my rocket airplane. Pursing gentler aspects of the hobby, I purchased my first engine while in High School. It was a .049 Atwood, that I wore out, trying to start it. I remember beating up a neighbor kid pretty badly for stealing the darn thing. When I should have just given him it. I learned to fly U control on a basketball court behind Alma Ward. Not much line length, but I did learn how not to get dizzy. Some of the dates that I had with Lilly, were flying U control model airplanes, I flew a U Control in front to the first little apartment that we lived in after our Marriage. My experiences with model airplanes are mostly about friends, people I would never have known had it not been for my hobby. So, my advice has always been, find something to do outside of your regular circles, and you will find people out there that will make your life so much better and someone to share the Gospel with also. In Biloxi, Mississippi I became friends with Sgt. Kline, Pete Mesmer, Sgt. Howard, and others. Peter and his whole family joined the church, and more many have, that I have not followed. It has just been a great part of my life. My first radio-controlled airplane was made in Biloxi, and m first flight was made in Gulfport, at an abandoned airport. What a thrill it was to see that Cub actually turn as I worked the control stick. My transmitter, receiver, and all that was in the airplane, was homemade, as there was very little commercially available. We would work all week repairing, just to fly that once or twice on Saturday, just to do it all over again. In South Dakota, I still had the Cub, but also designed and made a big Stits Flybaby. I tried to build a new proportional radio system for it, but it never did work right. Using those new fangled transistors, I was trying to go too far, too fast. I went back to what worked, in Arizona, and built a Champ, with single channel, wig-wag pulse proportional. (A system where as you moved the Control stick the rudder would constantly bag back and forth but according to the stick position of the rudder, it would stay more to one side than the other.) We had to cut the wing in half to get it to Japan, so my models went there wagging their tails behind them.
Waiting for my Lilly, I built a Nobler U Control (flown on 60ft wire cables)Kit and really got serious about UC Stunt. I joined the Base Model club, and again made many new friends. I participated in the Far East model championships, in which I flew Radio Control hand launched glider, U-Control stunt speed, including jet at nearly 200 miles an hour. Free flight, and Team Racing. We were after team points, and had to enter as many events as possible. Back at Itazuki, I started flying with a tuned reed Radio Control system to give me up to ten channels different controls we built many airplanes, but my favorite was the Smog Hog. It had a 6ft wide wingspan. And it had a high wing. Our homemade radio equipment didn't work that entire well. That old Smog Hog went in so many times and was rebuilt so many times I was considering cast iron as a building material. So, necessity being the mother of invention, I installed a large parachute in the airplane which could be deployed by radio. Well, the very next time I flew it, it happened. Flying from an athletic field nest the the fence over which was a Japanese village, the airplane headed for the ground. About 50ft above the ground, I hit the switch. I watched as the chute came out and fully deployed just before it hit the ground. I climbed the fence and ran to the plane. There was the poor plane, broken clean in two, not by the ground, but by the shock of the chute opening. Back to the drawing board, but years later, this has become a life saving idea, used on ultra light and other small planes. Just ahead of my time again.
It wasn't until the 1970's that model helicopters became a reality, but again, when I was a junior in High School, I built and flew a jet powered model helicopter free flight, with great success. When I was in Rapid City, I designed and flew a low winged RC airplane, that to my knowledge, was one of the first low winged that I ever heard of. All of these things have left me wondering just what could have happened had I pursued it. Never sell yourself short. Your ideas are actually whisperings of the spirit and should never be sold short. By the time we got back to the US and at old Cape Cod, things were really beginning to happen in the hobby. Multi channel, proportional, commercially available radio systems became available, but very expensive. I remember spending all of a reenlistment bonus for a new radio system. I even borrowed money from the Church building funds to finish paying for a new system and not only repay it, but had to confess it to the Bishop. This taught me to never let your wants lead you down the path that can take you to places that can give you unhappiness, it isn't worth it. I hope my family will forgive me for the second hand clothes, the less than new Christmas and birthday presents caused by my over enthusiastic involvement in my hobby. I have seen some of this same tendency in some of my children and accept responsibility for not teaching you better. Some of these Radio systems were almost worthless, but over the years they are now almost perfect.
In Old Cape Cod, I was a member of a great club, with guys from all over that part of New England. We flew off the frozen Ice Ponds. Our gear in the airplanes required hand warmers wrapped next to the airplane receivers to keep from freezing. I built a cub from my own planes, a P63 King Cobra from a kit, and other short-lived planes I can't remember. On one occasion, a big contest was held at Otis AFB, and I built a Nober UC especially for the contest. With hundreds of people watching, I started the engine, and then ran out to the center of the circle to pick up the control handle. With perfect confidence, like a bullfighter in the ring, I raised my arm and dropped it in a signal to release the plane. It quickly accelerated to take off speed and flew into the air. I gave it up to prepare for my first maneuver/the airplane dove straight into the ground, splattering into a hundred pieces. I had grabbed the handle upside down. Those old contest jitters can sure humble a feller in a hurry.
Another event I entered that day was UC combat, where the object is to cut a crape paper streamer from the tail the other aircraft. Something went wrong with my engine, and it would scream wide open for a few seconds, then sat down to just idle again. As I flew around in the circle, the airplane would streak around, and then practically stop in the air. I'm sure the other pilot thought I did it deliberately, because he didn't have a chance. A little help from above is always appreciated (what you say when your praying for help in a model airplane contest.) Surely, the old man was crazy. Nope, just praying over my crops and fields, like the good book says. Mine just happened to have engines. Anyhow, when we left Cape Cod, I had a pretty good outfit. In New Jersey, I flew off of the Parade grounds at Ft. Monmouth. Along the way, I got Nita's husband, Dale, interested in the hobby, for which he probably still cusses me. When we got to Maryland, I really got into the contests. Concentrating on Scale events, I won many trophies in contest up and down the East Coast. That is where the DC3 was designed and built. It won many contests, and I did a construction article for it in the Magazine, Model Airplanes News. When we left Maryland, I never did get into the Hobby that deeply again. I did enjoy flying, especially with my sons. Each of which learned to fly. Ronald has been my good right hand, enabling me to hold the transmitter even though I can no longer see the planes. It has been a wonderful hobby, a large part of my life.

GUNS, BOMBS, AND THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with guns and explosives. When I was just a little boy, living in Eager, the grocery store sold firecrackers around July the 4th celebration. We hunted around in the barns for eggs, which we could exchange for firecrackers. To us, these were magical things, which could make wonderful things happen. We sent cans high into the air, blew up ant hills, determined who was the bravest by holding one carefully in your fingers until it exploded, stunning the tips of your fingers, but never crying, or showing pain. To just light and throw one was a wasteful act. Those wonderful bangs required careful planning. Dad gave me a 22 rifle for Christmas when I was about 13, and he and Uncle Joe Chesley took me out in the desert, where I had to wait my turn to fire at a target. It was a cold, rainy day, but one I can never forget. With that little rifle across the handle of my bicycle, a box of 22 shots in my pocket, and my dog running by my side, I would hunt in the tall cottonwood trees along Extension road and out into the desert along Lehi hill by the canal. I became an excellent shot, hitting just about anything I aimed at. Of course, I wasn't always safe, and certainly smart, escaping injury or tragedy narrowly several times. Those Guardian Angels working overtime. All though I did shoot some birds and small animals, I never really enjoyed killing things. Later in my life, I did go game hunting, but I never killed any of the things I shot at. And really, I'm glad I didn't. In Mesa, it became harder and harder to get fireworks, I would scrimp and save to order an assortment but the Post Office would always confiscate it, and I would lose my money. Ever now and then, a lucky kid in the town would get some, brought in from another state, or from across the border. We kids would suddenly be best friends, trying desperately to beg, borrow, or steal a few. Then, mysterious explosions would be heard around the neighborhood. Some old fuddy duddy would always call the Cops, and they always seemed to come to my house first. My poor mother, who never suspected that I was the culprit, innocently protected a very guilty son on more occasions than I want to remember. At Mesa High, one of my favorite classes was chemistry. Now I could make my own explosives. I made smoke bombs, bombs, and rockets. I created an explosive powder from sugar and saltpeter, which produced wondrous explosions, terrorized the neighborhood. No one dared report me, and the cops were afraid to come around. This may be an exaggeration, but I did get away with a lot. I think it was the summer of my junior year in high school, my buddies and I decide to take a little camping trip up in the White Mountains. We decided that it would be neat to make a bomb. Since I was the expert, we stopped in Show Low at a hardware store to see what we could find for the parts. A large piece of plumbing pipe caught my eye, and so we bought that and screw on caps for each end. The drug store provided the rest of what we needed and so we continued on our way to Eager. Among the tall pines we set up camp and prepared the World's first pipe bomb, at least the first one I ever heard of. When I was ready, we placed it in a deep hole and moved a large rock over it. After lighting a long fuse, we all ran and hid behind the trees. When we had just about figured the fuse must have gone out,and we began to peer out at the spot, the earth shook, among smoke and pine needles we gazed at the hole, now much larger than before. We stood around looking at small pieces of metal embedded in the hole, when we remembered the rock. It was nowhere to be seen. As we stood around the trees, a breaking of branches followed by a loud thud. I cannot tell how high that boulder had gone, but at least a half a minute had gone by since the explosion, and probably longer, before that thing came down. If it had come down where we stood, it would have killed us. This was the year before the Russians orbited Sputnik, and we boys nearly beat them to it.

Homemade guns were also very nearly my downfall. From small BB firing zip guns, 12 gauge shot gun pistols, to black powder weapons, I make them all. Using a piece of pipe for a barrel, my shot gun pistol was something to behold. I took it down to my friend Karl's for it's first shot. Now old Karl had a large Chinaberry tree in front of his house and with him watching, I aimed at the tree and pulled the trigger. When the smoke cleared, only a small piece of wooden handle was in my bruised hand, the leaves fell like rain, and Karl was looking for holes in his body, sure that at least one of us was dead. Perhaps that piece of pipe, it may be one of those pieces of space junk you always hear about. I'm sure those Guardian Angels were again hard at work. in my later years I continued to enjoy firearms. Antique black powder guns have been my special interest, and I have really enjoyed working on, and shooting them. After my blindness, I learned to shoot by sound. Placing a bell over the target. It was also great therapy to build replicas of antique firearms from kits. When this became too expensive, arrangements were made with a local gun shop to sell my creations. When I test these guns by firing them out of the front door, the neighbors still shake their heads and say, "old crazy P.J. is still around."

THE BIRDMAN

The Birdman was quite a project. It resembled a large model airplane kit with hundreds of small pieces of wood to be glued together. Randy and I both worked on various parts of it. Before we were finished, Randy sold me his part so He could build his own ultralight. We finished the Birdman and hauled it out to the airport for testing. At the time, I was taking flying lessons, and the people who were at the airport really got a laugh out of my attempts to get off the ground. The little engine was just not strong enough, and I would buss up and down the runway, almost, but not quite, getting airborne. I was able to find a larger engine, and finally got into the air. I don't think I can describe the feeling of actually flying in a machine that you have constructed yourself. It is just magical. Seeing the earth far below you, every glue joint, every bolt, and every nut is questioned in your mind. But, it flies! That little airplane scared me plum white on three different occasions, twice while flying on Sunday's. I was climbing out after takeoff, and was about a hundred feet high when the engine quit cold. I was too low to turn back and land. I wasn't high enough to make it to any good place to land, so I just put the nose down and went straight ahead. That put me into a fence and the highways. The fence tore off the landing gear and then the tail. I sat in what was left on the side of the road, brushing off the dirt and waiting for Lilly to come pick up the pieces. I was unhurt, but very humble. On another Sunday, I had taken the outfit up to Carefree Arizona, where I entered the Greater Arizona Ultralight Air Race. About a hundred planes were entered; it resembled a circus, Airplanes and people everywhere. The racecourse was out over the desert, in a big triangle. I took off around 10am in a cloud of dust and into a swarm of little buzzing airplanes. For a few minutes, it was The Magnificent Men and their Flying Machines, all over again. About a mile or so out, I flew into turbulence. I bounced so hard I hurt my back. I was also sure that I had damaged the airplane. I tried to look back and see the tail, I wasn't sure it was still attached, but I couldn't see it. After limping on around to the runway, I landed. The only thing broken was my pride, but I was very happy to take every thing home in one piece. Another Pilot was killed that afternoon when he crashed trying to land.
After finally selling the Birdman, I started looking for bigger things. During the time that we were building the ultra light, I took the training, and was able to obtain a pilot's license. I had made a good friend, Don Wilcox, who was a airplane mechanic at the Safford airport. He had a WW! Military trainer known as a PT-19. He let me become a partner in the restoration project. I worked at the college teaching electronics in the evenings to make extra money. This, and many hours spent on old airplane parts, finally produced a beautiful low wing cockpit airplane. I was able to fly it once before it was sold to an airline pilot in St. Louis. Working with Don on that airplane gave me many building skills. I then saw an add in the paper for an Aeronica Champ two place airplane project for sale in Phoenix. I checked it out, and found that I could, with some scraping, possible afford it. The old Champ was bare bones and in pieces scattered all over the Man's backyard. The engine was sitting on an old tire, and many parts were missing. It had also been in a wreck, which had bent up the sheet metal parts badly. Shades of the old Model A project, but it was love at first sight. I proudly hauled it home on a trailer and just looked at it for a while. Once again, I began a massive research project, finding plans, pictures, and catalogs pertaining to the Bird. As she was a classic, I found original books on construction, maintenance, and rigging of the airplane. Don agreed to supervise the job, and I was ready to go. I was able to purchase another totally wrecked airplane for parts, and with many new parts, it began to come together. I really tried to make it as new and perfect as possible. What a learning experience that turned out to be. But, when I towed it out to the Airport for final assembly, She was beautiful to behold. It was painted all over tan with brown trim, a brand new prop was on the engine, and new windows all around. She also sported a new interior and a new instrument panel. I was as proud as a new parent. Don checked it all over and pronounced it air worthy. He also took it up for a short flight around the field. With it all checked out, it was finally My turn to fly. Now, a low time Pilot jumping into a new type of airplane, especially a airplane with a tail wheel, called a tail dragger, is a sure call for problems. But, I was a courageous, clear eyed, junior Birdman, so I proceeded to teach myself how to fly that little bird. I first tried high-speed taxi up and down the runway. This resulted in a couple of wild, hair raising, ground loops. I went screeching off the runway, one wing nearly scraping the ground, and nothing would stop it until it decided to stop About the only damage was to my pride, but that was considerable, as everyone was watching. After much practice I started to enjoy what would turn out to be hundreds of hours of pleasure.
After the experience of building, or restoring, the Aeronica I was looking for a new project. Don suggested that a Piper Tri Pacer might be an interesting project. Now, that Tri Pacer is an older, four place, airplane with a nose wheel. The aircraft Don suggested had a 150-horse power engine and he thought it was in a hanger at the Douglas Arizona Airport. I took Ronald with me and we flew down there in the Champ. We found it in the very back of a big hanger, all dusty and neglected. The fabric was old and torn in several places. We gave the Man a deposit and flew home with dreams of what a wonderful little airplane we would make of her. I finally drove back to Douglas with Lilly, pulled the plane out of the hanger, gassed it up, quickly read the manual, and took of for Safford. With Lilly following in the car, I flew to Wilcox. Over the airport, I switched fuel tanks, not trusting my knowledge of the valves. It seemed to work, so I set my course for Safford. Arriving over Safford at 9000 fee, I thought it would be a good idea to practice making an approach high above the airport just to get a feel for how the airplane would behave. Arriving opposite my intended touch down point while on downwind, I reduced the throttle, but, as I put the flaps down, it was apparent I was going down quickly. Much quicker than in a Champ. As a matter of fact, as I turned on to final approach, I had to add power just to make my touchdown point. I learned that one of the characteristics of a short wing Piper is coming down like a rock without power. I was mighty proud that I had made it without indecent, and taxied it over to a tie down space for the crowd's appraisal. We took the wings off and hauled it home on the back of our old Ford pickup. In our garage, all the covering was removed, along with every other part needing attention. One of the major jobs was converting it to a tail dragger. The old gear was removed and new gear legs were welded on. Rudder pedals with dual brakes were installed in the front cockpit. Instruments were sent away for overhaul, seats were re-upholstered, the windshield was replaced, a new interior with headliner was installed, and finally, it was completely recovered and painted. When we finally hauled it back to the Airport, she was, for all intents and purposes, a new airplane. I now had two airplanes in my hanger, but I tried to be humble while facing the big question, which airplane do I fly today?
I did enjoy the Piper project, it's four-seat capacity allowed me to take the whole family then at home, on trips, but it was just not an enjoyable airplane to fly. It flew fine, but ground handling was always a problem. The brakes were not very good, and it was so short couped that a ground loop was always a possibility. I joined the Short Winged Piper Club, a national organization, and flew to several interesting field trips. One was to Holbrook and the Painted Desert. Another was to Fort Huachuca and it's many historical sites. I flew Lilly to Springerville for a funeral and my brother Gary to work at Fort Grant. Lilly was never very comfortable flying, but she bravely went along. While flying high over Alpine, a side window suddenly popped open with a very loud noise and rush of air. It scared both of us, but Lilly nearly got out and walked. Gary, my brother, has a substantial girth. When I flew him to work at Fort Grant, the take off and flight were no problem, but the landing was very exciting. There are dual controls in the Piper, with a steering wheel on both sides in the front. When I pulled back on the wheel to flare out near the ground, the wheel in front of Gary hit his belly and I could not pull back nearly enough for the landing. Gary screamed as we hit hard and bounced high into the air, but the second touch down was all right so all ended fine. Gary never would ride with me again, and I'm not sure the airplane could have taken another landing like that anyway, but it does say something for my welding skills. We finally sold the Piper to a man from Texas. With that money in my pocket, I again began looking around for another project. During the time we were working on old planes, I also got interested in old cars. While traveling around in my work, I often saw remains of old cars lying down off the road. When I found an old Model A Ford up at Grays Peak Highway Maintenance yard, I was hooked. I borrowed a trailer and searched among the pine needles for any remaining parts, I hauled it home. There was no motor, no axles or wheels, and very few body parts remaining. What I had was a 1929 Sports Coupe. I straighted and cleaned what I had, and then began an epic search for parts. At first, we hauled home parts from old wrecks all over the country, discovering that there were many brands of automobiles besides Fords around in those days. I drug home mashed fenders from dry washes, gas tanks and doors from old dumps, even parts from out on the Indian reservation. I purchased a transmission from a place in Phoenix. I bought an old wagon for the Model A axles it had. I traded radio work for a really worn out engine, which had to go to a specialist for overhaul. Old, worn out junk from all sorts of places returned to it's source, an old Model A Ford. I obtained catalogs specializing in old Ford parts, and using these like a kid at Christmas time, I ordered goodies for my car. It slowly came together. New body wood, paint, glass, seat covers, and canvas made it a car again. I had a stack of invoices and bills of sale two inches tall to prove it was mine, but was required to get a warranty and title. We put the kids in the rumble seat, Lilly and I got in the front, and away we went. We drove it in lots of parades, and cruised around town just enjoying the attention we received. Finally sold it to a man from Scottsdale to get money for an airplane project. Around 1989 I restored another Model A Ford, a 1930 two-door coupe. With previous experience and lots more parts, it went together pretty quickly. This one was sold after my blindness made it impossible for me to care for it. Many enjoyable hours spent doing things that I loved. Not a bad way to spend life.
One of my friends, George Mace, told of a wrecked Piper Cub for sale at Globe, so Lilly and I went to take a look. There wasn't one piece that wasn't broken or badly bent. Even the fuselage was in two pieces. I bought it on the condition that the fuselage be welded back together, and George did a fine job. All of the pieces came to our home on the back of a truck, and with a vision that only I could see, I began. Each part was carefully hammered or bent straight. Many pieces had to be purchased new, but once again, an airplane began to emerge. It was a 1941 airplane, with much history behind it. It had been all over the U.S. and had probably trained hundreds to fly. It had been rebuilt and recovered many, many times. I tried to figure out all the owners but had to give up due to missing logbooks. I finally pieced together enough paper work to get it properly registered and licensed. This was nearly as big a job as rebuilding the airplane. I finished all except for a few final touches when I went blind. I never go to fly it, but fondly remember that pretty little yellow airplane.

DOCTORS AND I

After the disastrous first experience with a doctor when I was born, I should have known it would be best to stay away from them fellers, but I didn't. I only remember going to see a doctor three times before going into the service. Once to have a toe nail pulled out, the time a bug got in my ear, and the time I stuck my arm through a plate glass window. From then on it was all down hill. I was in perfect health until that evening in 1956 when a model airplane propeller blade let loose and hit me square in my left eye. They operated and sewed it up, but after 3 weeks of healing, I could not detect any light. Another operation was performed, and the useless eye was completely removed. Weeks of pain followed, and when I was healed enough, I went to New Orleans for a new plastic eye. The preparer is more an artist than a doctor and he tries for a perfect match. This guy was excellent, and for many years people that didn't know me couldn't really tell. At about the same time I noticed some angry red spots on my nose and neck. The great doctors I say diagnosed it as a form of leprosy, and game me some skin cream to apply twice a day. Of course it didn't work and after a year or so it just got worse, then began my years of radiation and skin grafts around my eyes and face. I really can't say how many operations I had, I only know that I was cut more times than I had birthdays. The problem was that any one surgery never seemed to take care of my problem. The area around my right eye just keep coming back again and again.

MY NEW LIFE IN THE DARK

After my blindness it certainly seemed that every thing I loved to do was no longer possible. This was just a fact and I tried to face it. I began to move incessantly in what seemed to be a search for something to touch, something to do. Lilly got me some modeling clay that I began to play with. It seemed to work. I was soon creating small statues of various things. After some encouragement, I began to pursue it in earnest. We took some of my creations down to the college where Dr. Justin Fairbanks also encouraged me in this pursuit. I began to attend his sculpture classes where I learned a great deal. I made statues of many things, but my specialty was horses. Many were given to family and friends, and I even sold some. Another thing I really missed was being involved with model aircraft. We decided to just go on out to the local R.C. field. I met with my old buddies and really enjoyed it. We began subscribing to the model magazine to catch up on the latest developments and called my Brother-in-law Dale, who was active in models, engines, and radios like mad trying to get (back into the hobby as much as possible) with hope of enjoying that part of my life again. Ronald was great. He and I built airplanes together flying together, and just talked airplanes. It did turn out to be lots of fun.
Thinking about other things I could do with my hands I remembered how much I had enjoyed working with guns. We began ordering gun kits from which I could build into replicas of antique firearms. This also turned out to be a lot of fun. I made Cap and ball pistols for all my kids and made agreements with the local Gun Shop to sell others. I would sand and file days on each one, while Lilly took care of applying the finish. Many days of pleasant togetherness resulted from this pursuit. I was also able to continue teaching the Gospel Doctrine and High Priest classes when called to do so. Lilly and I were called to work in the Family History Center every Thursday, which helped us in our pursuit of genealogy. We were able to send Hundreds of names to the temple and extend our family lines back many generations. So where my Life did change, it was still very good.
I have hung my hat so many places, but none that I would change, this life is lived for experiences, and mine have been many, and this I have learned, try always to do your best, trust in the Lord, and pray for guidance, and all will be well. There is still more to come but as for now, I'm busy and happy. I love my family, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU...

Intro to Articles

Since I have gone blind I've had Sister Jill Adair from Mesa who writes for the Beehive Newspaper and the Church news, and also the local Courier newspaper come and written my story so I have inserted them here in my life story. I hope my story has given hope to people that have big trials to overcome. Because of the Church news many of my old friends have called and we have had vice visits.

Blind Artist Sculpts a Work of Art from Life's Trials

By Jill Adair, The Beehive Newspaper and Church News
Sixty-seven year old Paris White, a member of the Arizona Pima Stake, finds that by using his creative abilities, and sustained by the love of his family, he can face the trials life deals him, even if he can't see them. More than 45 years after losing his first eye in an accident, and nearly ten years after losing his second eye to cancer, Brother White says creating helps him to cope. "Art is something I've been doing all of my life," he says. "Now I can't see what I'm doing, but I can feel it."
Brother White and his wife of 48 years, Lilly, both grew up in Mesa, but have spent the latter part of their lives in Central, a small Gila Valley community in Eastern Arizona. Early in their married lives, Brother White served in the Air Force, running advanced communication systems, while his hobbies included painting and drawing.
He painted even after he lost his right eye in Mississippi in 1956 when a propeller from a model airplane shattered and a piece of the wood tore through his eye.
Years later, Brother White retired from the Air Force and started a second career with the Arizona Department of Public Safety as a specialist in their radio communications system. The White's settled in Central, near his work in Safford and Mount Graham.
During this time, Brother White began being treated for skin cancer on his head because of years of exposure to the sun.
He entered the Tucson Medical Center in August 1991 for what he thought would be minor surgery to remove the cancer.
When the doctors operated, they found that the cancer had spread from his skin to his remaining good eye. Fearing hte cancer would continue to spread, the eye was removed.
Paris woke up in an ambulance being transferred to another medical facility, and realized the horrifying effects of the surgery, he was now permanently blind. Optic nerves had also been severed, leaving him with excruciating pain.
During the following months Brother White became addicted to Morphine and Demerol-heavy medication prescribed by the doctors to help dull the pain. "We had a rough time because of the pain." Recalls Sister White of her husband's ordeal.
"As bad as I was physically," Brother White says, "it was worse emotionally. I felt like it was the end of the world."
Brother White whose posterity includes eight children, 30 grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren, remembers when he finally reached a point where he had to decide what the future held for him. "I felt like I was not alive," he says "You lose your life when you're on that kind of medication. That's no way to live."
Depressed and in pain, but clinging to his strong faith and love and support of his family, Brother White decided to take back his life; he told the doctors that he was going off the drugs, "They told him that it would probably kill him," says Sister White, "but he was determined to do it."
"Through prayer and feeling close to the Lord, and understanding what life is all about, I realized that I had things that I still needed to do," Brother White says, "We all have trials that come along, but you can't allow them to knock you down and rule your life. Our families need us. "I couldn't be a good husband or a grandpa when I was on that kind of medication."
Slowly he began weaning himself off the large dosages of drugs and learned to do for himself what he could without his sight.
He went through a blind rehabilitation program offered through the Veteran's Administration. There he learned to dress himself, to eat, and to use a cane. However, he was unable to learn Braille because years of handling hot tubes in communications equipment had dulled the feeling in his fingers and hands.
He took up a new artistic medium that he had not tried before. He attended a sculpting class given by Eastern Arizona College. Sculpting with clay over wire frames has not only become his work and his passion but also a creative outlet that he considers "therapy."
"If I'm not doing something with my hands I get nervous and my hands move uncontrollably," he says. "When I have something to work on, it calms me down. Touching things is a substitute for seeing things. I can visualize it in my brain: my hands have become my eyes.
The White's home as well as their children's is filled with artwork crafted by his hands; images of things he feels instead of seeing, and others that he remembers clearly in his mind.
One sculpture, sprayed with a copper colored finish to look live bronze, is of Brother White's seeing eye dog-an amazing likeness of a dog he's never seen'
His favorite subjects are horses, cowboys, and Native Americans: Images often inspired by Western Novel he listens to on tape. "When the book is about horses and I hear the clip, clop--it helps me visualize them," he says. He also recalls many of those images from his youth when he spent the summer's with his grandfather who was a rancher in Eager.
He also listens to his scriptures, the Ensign and his priesthood lesson on tape. "The Church makes sure I'm not left out because I'm blind"
Brother White also taught Gospel Doctrine class in Sunday school for 10 years, teaching even after losing his sight by listening to the lesson several times until he was familiar enough to teach it without ideas.
When asked what gives him the strength to go on, he credits his family and his faith. "My wife and I have a wonderful love for each other, and my kids are always challenging me and giving me something to do.
"We've always had the church," says Sister White, "it has given us the willpower and determination to keep going.
Today Brother White takes very minimal pain medication and finds much to be happy about. He says he's still learning to cope and calls it a "progression."
"The main thing is that I wanted to be as much as I can be, despite my handicap," he says. "I'm still working on it, but I never gave up."

Article From the Eastern Arizona Courier

Artist overcomes adversity By Stuart Alan Becker, Staff Writer
When Paris White Checked into the Tucson Medical Center for minor tear duct surgery on his one remaining eye, he had no idea he would wake up totally blind. His reaction was anger, great sadness, and pain.
The Doctor had found cancer in the eye--originating from the nearby skin. If the Doctor had not removed the eye, the cancer would likely have migrated to his brain and killed him.
As White lay in the Tucson hospital bed with two empty eye sockets, he realized the terrifying permanence that no longer could he work his beloved job maintaining the communications equipment for the state police by driving to gorgeous sites like Heliograph Peak.
In saving him from cancer, the doctor had blinded him forever.
No longer could he paint the exquisite works of art that adorned the walls of his house---the house in Central where his eight children, among them a daughter who became Miss Arizona--spent many happy years.
Now Paris White would never see anything again--ever.
The possibility of suicide entered his mind as the severed optic nerves sent throbbing messages of pain into his brain--terrible pain.
He became addicted to large amounts of morphine--prescribed by doctors to dull the pain. Why should he go on living?
As it turned out--for a number of very good reasons. Shining brighter that any other was his wife, Lillian, who stood by him every moment, encouraging him and reminding him how truly blessed he was with a large, prosperous and beautiful family. Having retired from the Air Force as a Master Sergeant specializing in Satellite and electronics communications in 1974, White and his wife settled down in Central, the small Gila Valley community between Thatcher and Pima, AZ.
He took a job at the Arizona Department of Public Safety and enjoyed his second career until his one remaining eye started to water and bother him.
White had lost his right eye in Biloxi, Miss, in 1956 after a friend had glued together a propeller for a model airplane.
When the engine was running at a high RPM the propeller gave way and a piece of wood shot like a bullet into his eye--Which had to be removed. With one eye remaining, White had enjoyed a successful 20 year career across the world in the Air Force, visiting Germany, Japan, and many other interesting places. Two of his children were born in Japan.
Now it was 1991 and White had been treated for skin cancer on his head because of years of exposure to the sun and possibly the radiation of the high powered Air Force communication equipment.
White was admitted to Tucson Medical Center complaining of pain, itching, and watering of the remaining good eye.
The date was Aug. 1 1991 a terrible day for Paris White.
Very depressed, he entered a six-week course for the blind given by the Veteran's Administration hospital in Tucson. There, he met men who were far worse off than him.
He learned to dress himself, to eat, to use a cane and to type.
Later, even though he was still in a lot of pain, he took a course in sculpture at Eastern Arizona College taught by Dr. Fairbanks.
Today sculpture is White's work and passion, a creative outlet of great expression through which he can use his hands to create things he remembers clearly in his mind from the years when he could see.
"All the images of my life are still in my mind," White said. "When I do a sculpture of Geronimo, I remember a picture I saw of him on a train with a rifle and a scowl on his face, being taken away by the Army. That's what I remember when I touch the clay, and I can come close in making the features that he had."
White's mantle is adorned with a galley of remarkable sculptures done in clay with wire frames--then spray painted with a copper-colored finish. They look like art works in bronze.
It is hard to believe that such expressive, detailed craftsmanship is the work of a blind man. But finding a creative outlet in sculpture was not the end of Paris White's heroic struggle.
Even great doses of morphine could no longer dull the pain caused by the severed optic nerves. A series of operations attempted to ease the pain--but only with limited success. Finally in 1997, after dying briefly on an operation table in Albuquerque, NM when his heart stopped and he was brought back to life by doctors--White solicited his wife's help to wan him from the morphine and the pain pills. "I became violently ill, vomiting, hallucinating--but gradually I was able to lick it," he said.
Although it took two years of enduring severe pain, with Lilly's help they cut down his dosage to two shots instead of three--to three pills instead of four.
Today White is taking only minor pain medication. "I remember the people I served with in the Air Force and riding back on an Air Force C5A transport and seeing the young kids with arm's blown off and no eyes. I remember thinking when you go blind, your life has ended." He said.
But, he learned, life goes on. "Your life has not ended, it's just a change in the way you do things. It's like learning to walk over again; You walk into doors, you trip and fall. You use your other senses to make your self worthwhile and productive."
Lilly pulls down the black powder Kentucky Rifle White built from a kit--one of the dozens he has completed. "Many are for sale through a special arrangement at B&M Gun Shop in Safford. His daughters visit and work with him, learn from him how to assemble, sand, and finish the black powder replicas. They love working with their father. If somebody wants a black powder kit done, Paris will do it," Lilly said. "I think my sense of touch has improved more than anything. My sense of smell has increased too." Every Sunday, White teaches Sunday School to the youngsters at Central LDS Church. On Thursdays he answers the telephone at the Family History Center. Lilly brings out a picture of their daughter Rhonda, who was Miss Graham County, and then Miss Arizona in 1984.
Even though he cannot see, he remembers his beautiful daughters in his mind. White, who was born in Mesa, the oldest of eight children, three boys and five girls, has the same ratio among his own eight children--three boys and five girls. He and Lilly have 30 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren. He can trace the White Family line all the way back to 1619 in Virginia.