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.