My Father's Journey to Oregon and Sneaking Into The Temple

     About 1942, my father David Owen, and the brother closest in age to him, Harold, ventured to Oregon. My grandparents had divorced and remarried—in fact my grandmother, Arizona was newly wed to her second husband, Roy Farmer.

     These two youngest sons, were about to enter puberty and were full of mischief. They were no longer little children digging forts in a backyard in Detroit. The United States had only just entered World War two; Eugene and Edward, the older sons, were soldiers. Sisters Lynn-Marie and Delma were married and engaged, respectively.  It’s understandable that Zona and Roy needed some time to themselves.

     Grandpa (known as Ransom by friends and siblings, and Papa George by the youngsters) lived in Oregon with his second wife LaVera, so the boys were shipped by bus, west from Detroit. It was a long journey for two boys almost twelve and ten. They sat, day after day, city after city, state after state. They left the concrete of Detroit and soon entered highways lined with trees, drove past lakes, then farms, and through Chicago’s streets famed for gangsters, hooch and speakeasies only a decade or two before. When the boys left the Windy City, tall buildings behind them became smaller in the distance and soon there were only small towns, fields and little farmhouses to break the landscape during the day. If sleep came at all, it was fitful, bouncing and jostling in the hard seats. The whir of the large tires was their lullaby.  During the crossing, trees gave way to plains, plains changed to arid landscapes and within days, the Rocky Mountains came into view.

     In those days, older children could safely wander most cities as long as they didn’t venture far from the station. They’d listen for an announcement calling them to board yet another bus.

     Just as their transportation was entering Utah, the driver said, “Utah was settled by the Mormons in the 1880s. They turned a desert wasteland into what today, is a thriving state. Many of you have heard of Brigham Young and his many wives. He sent missionaries out into the world to preach, and when they departed, those boys were told to gather more women. ‘Bring them back and bring ’em young! bring ‘em young!’” the man joked.

     The vehicle pulled into the station in Salt Lake City. Passengers departed, some meeting relatives and others stretching their aching legs. Davey and Harold were told to return at a designated time, but they had a few hours to explore. They day was warm and the sun was shining. Davey toured around Temple Square and learned about the miracle of the seagulls who had flocked in to eat an invasion of crickets that were devouring the newly sprouting crops; the only food that the pioneers had. If not for those birds, the newly arrived families surely would have starved.

     By mid-day, alone in the bright direct sun, my dad being the curious boy he was, sought shade and respite in the large building he was nearest to. He entered a door that was obviously not being used. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, the boy looked around, saw alters and such. There was some light and he saw a group of people in another room, dressed in white.

     A very surprised older gentleman saw him. The man walked over and asked, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

     Davey pointed, then answered, “I’m waiting for my bus. I came through that door over that way.” The old man gently guided him right back out the door, into the bright sun. He found Harold and the two made their way through the city and back to the station.

     Soon they heard a voice call them to board their bus to Oregon and days later, the boys were reunited with their Papa George. Davey was bound to get into more mischief and his brief adventure into the historic Salt Lake City Temple was only the beginning.

 

To be continued.

Photograph of the bus station in Salt Lake City ca. 1940's