340340 January 19. Usually, when I go to the bank, I walk south along a residential block that faces the east. I enjoy the yards and gardens. On the corner, violets carpet the entire lot, surrounding a quaint pioneer home where a little old lady lives. I enjoy her cheery "Hello." Today, for a change, I walked around the business side of the block. Next to a shoe cobbler's shop is some kind of a men's club. I don't know whether it's billards or beer. Anyhow, as I passed the entrance, Gus (not his real name) came out and fell in step with me.

"Well, hello," I said. I've known Gus all my life. He used to drop in for an occasional game of checkers with my dad.

"When are you going fishing with me?" he asked.

"I can't fish. I've never even touched a worm."

"You wouldn't have to. I'd bait your hook for you. I'd even put the fish on the hook."

"Then how would I ever get the wiggly things off?"

"I'd take the fish off your hook too." His dark eyes snapped, and a wide grin wrinkled his swarthy face. "I had a vision last night," he said. "In the vision I was shown that you were to be my wife."

"Hmmm," I mused. "Isn't that a coincidence? I had a vision too."

"You did? Was it about me?"

"Sure enough. I had a vision that you were going to have a vision, and I was warned not to become your wife."

Gus came to a halt, and I hurried into the bank.

341341 February 19. I took my children to St. George today to shop for shoes. Some crazy thing happened to the car on the way home. Every time I turned the wheel the horn honked. It honked intermittently all the way to Hurricane, and then it honked continuously through town.

Terry said, "Don't worry about it mother. We'll all wave like we're glad to see everyone."

When we passed Hurricane Motors, the usual lineup of loafers had collected, including Gus. My children waved jubilently, and my face burned.

February 21. The hills swarm with prospectors carrying Geiger counters, and the courthouse crawls with men filing mining claims. The uranium rush is on.

Gus burst into my office this morning and slapped a paper in front of me. "I need your signature on this line quick," he said.

"Why that line says 'spouse'," I replied.

"That's right. I've got a man waiting to buy my claim. A wife's signature is worth $20,000 to me today. Come on, be a pal and sign."

"But Gus, that wouldn't be honest. You don't even have a wife."

"But I could have if you cooperate. Please!"

"Sorry Gus. You'd better find somebody else."

Picking up his paper he sadly said, "Woman, you've just cost me $20,000."

March 25. DeMar and Larry Sanders are bachelors. DeMar told me so last night. He and Larry are good friends. DeMar likes to go out on the desert with Larry for hay.

July 1. Today is a new beginning. Here I am, sitting on top of the world. I came to work this morning in Perry Asay's pickup, climbing the six miles of dugway that is called the "Coleman Road."

A year later, in September, Coleman began construction on the Mesa road, and on a pipeline carrying water to the top of the hill from the Virgin River, and laying a two-and-one-half mile, continuous heavy duty 342342 rail track. Coleman committed themselves to the U.S. Air Force to run the first rocket down the track on July 8, 1955, an audacious thing to do, since an entire test base had to be built and only nine months to go. I have been introduced to my desk and typewriter, and that is all. While I wait for my orientation, I have a moment to reminisce.

One noteworthy item: Project SMART (Supersonic Military Air Research Track) is located on the Hurricane Mesa. Owen Sanders, who is a booster for our area, did the legal work to get Hurricane on the map by having the name of Lower Smith's Mesa changed to the Hurricane Mesa.

In May, Frank Goff of Los Angeles came to the courthouse to interview me, and offered me $1,000 a year increase in salary if I would change jobs. After my rash statement that I was going to be the first woman on the test base, now the issue stared me in the face. What in the world had I ever been thinking of?

I loved my courthouse family. I had only served six months of my new four-year term. (At least I would have by 1 July). I thought of my meditation time as I drove to and from the courthouse each day—how I had prayed my old car over the road. Only once in four years did I have a flat tire on the highway. And then, a man from Missouri came along and changed it for me. I have traveled on tires so thin that they were almost transparent, but they always got me there. My first flat was right in front of Ashby and McQuaid's garage, and three different times my tires held up until I stopped at the courthouse opposite Snow's service station. I was well taken care of.

Driving alone has given me time for voice lessons. Brother Manning had given me three lessons, and as I drove along I practiced. I'd never have dared do that where anyone could hear me. Sometimes I memorized parts in plays, readings, the beatitudes, and the Articles of Faith. Sometimes I just felt happy because the hills and the highway were beautiful, and sometimes I wept and simply talked to the Heavenly Father. If I changed jobs, I would become part of a car pool. No longer would I be able to furnish taxi service to neighbors and friends who wanted to shop in St. George.

To change or not to change! The decision was up to me. "President Graff, I need counseling," I telephoned.

He listened to my story, then said, "Alice, your job at the courthouse is secure for the rest of your life if you want it. This test base may be a fly-by-night thing, and you could find yourself unemployed. You'd better stay where you are." Then as an afterthought he asked, "By the way, have you talked to your bishop?"

"No," I admitted.

"He is the proper channel for you to go through. Talk to him and follow his counsel. If you have a question, you can call me."

I went to see Bishop Wayne Wilson. After hearing me out, he said, "Let me pray about it. I'll call you in the morning." Early the next morning he phoned, "Alice, take the new job. You'll be glad you did."

On the last of May I gave the commissioners a 30 day notice. Beulah Sammon was appointed to take over the treasurer's duties the first of July.

343343 Merrill Stucki sadly shook his head. "If you leave an unexpired term, you will be washed up politically. You'll never successfully run for office again."

Politics were in my blood, and that gave me a feeling of sadness, but on the last day of June I bid the gang goodbye. And here I am, the only woman on top of the hill. The administration building is still being built around me. Before me is a teletype machine and the switchboard. I am breathless, excited, and ready to buckle down to work.

July 7. How my life has changed. Technicians buzzing by say, "This is a mad house." The intercom is blatting. Men out on the track are making a preliminary drill for the firing in the morning at nine. The personnel from Los Angeles are here, also one man from Wright Patterson. I've typed the forms that show each technician just where he'll be, and what he'll be doing from this point on until the firing.

July 8. Day's end. The rocket was fired at 10:00 a.m. Telemeter trouble held the show up for an hour. After these many months of preparation, the test was over with in a flash. From a choice viewpoint, I watched along with Mr. and Mrs. Ted Coleman, their son, and his friend Peter. Three rockets were strapped to the sled, each weighing 85 pounds. In the igloo are rockets weighing 5,000 pounds. The firing lasted one second. The sled took off at something over 500 m.p.h. and stopped before it reached the end of the track, as planned. There was to be no ejection. The purpose of this test was to check the track, because the rails had to be within 10/1,000th of an inch of "a predetermined position at the fixed alignment points." Just imagine! 12,000 feet of two continuous rails anchored to concrete, stretched out on the flat top of the mesa in such a fine, straight line! Alignment had to be done at night to avoid errors that might result from the bending of light and heat waves . Because of the possibility of the thing blowing up, Dr. McIntire and Uarda Knight, the county nurse, were on the base.

After the test was over, the engineers and technicians congregated in Claude Brosterhous's office. (Claude is the base administrator). They tilted back in their swivel chairs, and with their coffee cups before them, they laughed in exultation. A boisterous brag session was in progress.

Claude had been trained for the Catholic ministry, but gave it up to get married. The training, however, showed, because he was kind and fair in his judgment, but this wasn't the case with some of the others. Loudly their voices boomed out into the hall.

"If it hadn't been for these damned Mormons, we never could have done it," someone said.

"I've never seen men who could buckle down like they did to build the road," said another.

"There's nothing like the way they bent their backs to stretch those rails," added another.

"Getting the water on top of the hill wouldn't have been accomplished in so short a time if it hadn't been for these local yokels," said the first.

Coleman men had cracked the whip, and Mormon dirt farmers had knuckled under. Even though they thought our people were very queer, there was a degree of respect in their remarks.

344344 July 11. After school closed in the spring, DeMar went to Las Vegas to work for Chance. A letter from him follows:

"Hi Mother. How did the rocket go over-‘ Very big hu! I hope the thing was a success and I hope your job is a success and brings you lots of happiness.

I don't know for sure when I will be home but I hope it is soon because I git tired of looking at this bleak gray desert, and I would like very much to see the green valley of LaVerkin again soon.

I just remembered something very important. If Shirley, Lolene or anybody has any reports that kids played with my 32 rifle I would like you to hide it in your room some place, but if you do, make sure that it is like it is now with a rag in the end of the barrel so dirt and spiders won't git in and also make sure that it don't git put in the basement or it will rust. Leave it up stairs someplace. Leave the bullets with it in the box it is in but if they don't bother it leave it where it is. It will be alright in the attic under that pile of army quilts. I don't think Gordon or Terry know where it is. I hope not but I was worried for fear they would look for it. But if they don't find it it will be all right. Goodbye for now, DeMar. P.S. If they don't bother it it will be all right but if they do either hide it in your room in the box it is in or give them strict instructions to leave it alone because I am afraid they will be showing of and let Phil or some of those kids play with it and break it but remember if it dont git bothered you can leave it where it is. Well right soon and tell me all the goings on and the results of the rocket and please tell me if Gordon and the kids all promise to leave my rifle alone and please git their promises in their hand wrighting to leave it alone and send them to me so I can rest because if they dont I will be responsible for any accident but if you can git their promise you can leave the gun there. Well good by wright as soon as you can. Good by for now your son DeMar."

August 1. Well, well, what prophets we were, Wayne and I. Already he is furnishing my transportation, and I am packing his lunch. Soon after I came to work on the mesa, Claude came to me, Wayne's application in his hand.

"Alice, do you know this fellow?" he asked.

"Sure. That's my brother."

"Can you get him on the phone for us? We've been looking at his experience in electronics, and we're hurting for his help."

I called Wayne at Hill Field, and already he has transferred to this base. What an ideal setup.

October 14. There's a difference between a father and a mother. A simple fact. When DeMar went to Las Vegas last spring, the family took over the feeding and training of Wild Bill.

DeMar's ag teacher, Pres. Graff, dropped by a time or two and lamented, "That boy ought to be home taking care of his ag project."

I didn't know boys couldn't go off to work because they had a calf. I was glad for DeMar to have an income instead of me being the only provider. Ah, I could see the glowing vision of it all. Wild Bill should not be neglected. The children and I would rise to great heights. We 345345 would make Wild Bill our family project, and show Pres. Graff that DeMar had as fine a support as any of the boys he eulogized at the annual FFA banquets. At these banquets, Pres. Graff always honored some wonderful, magnificent fathers who had taken such active interest in their son's projects. Well, DeMar's dad wasn't here, but his sisters, brothers and mother were. And so we took turns feeding, combing and brushing Wild Bill. We carroted and appled him, put our arms around his neck and patted and gooed at him, and to get him used to being led, we took him for walks up and down the road. A number of times I strolled with him by myself around the square. Bill became the family pet.

Word got back to the FFA teacher that "poor Alice" had to take care of lazy DeMar's fat steer. When school started, DeMar returned and took over the responsibility, but his credit was docked, and no one cited his wonderful mother at a banquet. What a pity. It would have been such a fine time to award a calf-strolling certificate.

To top it off, Bill was so far down the line at the auction in Cedar that the high bidding was over. Beautiful as he was, he scarcely brought enough to pay for his feed.

Still—there was a pride in having honestly tried.

December 1. Working on a test base is fascinating. Of all the office equipment that I have ever worked with, I love the teletype the most. Learning to read and correct tapes before I let them race over the wires is as much fun as learning a new language. Conference hookups, as I send test results to as high as five stations across the U.S. and Canada simultaneously, intrigue me. But to me the real ice cream on the pie is to be permitted to do guide service—to take sightseers out on the base and to try to explain the purpose of the facility.

The blockhouse is the nerve center of the operation. It is underneath a mound of earth at the north end of the track. Inside are the panels of instruments—the electronic brains, and the switch that fires the rockets. I don't try to look too intelligent here. The main thing I'm impressed with is how much I do not know.

I enjoy taking people out on the track, and if they're smog eaters from California, hearing them exclaim over our blue, blue sky, and the white hunks of clouds and the mountains. I'm seeing our area for the first time, through the eyes of strangers. Never before have I known how beautiful it really is.

I like climbing the camera towers and seeing people get squeamish before they reach the top, but I hold in reserve the biggest surprise of all. This is the camera revetment in the face of the ledge at the south end of the track. I lead my guests down a gravel ramp, open a door, and take them inside the dugout. Here I explain the big tracking cameras, and then—I unlatch the steel Venetian blind. It rumbles up, and we are standing in a window, with the world gouged out below us like the Grand Canyon.

One air force pilot walked unsuspectingly with me to help raise the iron curtain. When he found himself suddenly standing in the brilliant sunlight with nothing but the crisp air in front of him, he let out a terrified whoop, and fell against the back wall of the revetment. Then crawling, he grabbed the hem of my skirt.

346346 "Get away from that window," he yelled pulling me back. "You're going to kill yourself."

Certainly I had expected no such reaction. "Hey, look you're a pilot. How can you be afraid of heights?"

"Oh, but that's different," he tried to explain. "When you're up in the middle of the sky with the world all around you, you have a true sense of balance, and a secure feeling. But this!" He groped to his feet, keeping well back. "Here, you are on the edge of a precipice. Let's get out of here."

I enjoyed showing people Hurricane Sam, the anthromorphic dummy with his brains in his chest. He's supposed to be almost human. He's hard and unfeeling, I'd say.