remember the last time I ever attended a social function in that schoolhouse
(it was used on Sundays for church meetings and Sunday school and for
special community socials). That last time was the farewell party of
my cousin, who was leaving on a mission for the Church
of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The room was full of familiar
faces. I was a grown man, then, and in college. And many of the people
who had been young in the days of my schooling in Fruita were then old.
But we played the same of games, sang the same old songs, and enjoyed
them just as we had back when I was a first grader there.
as I gaze down on the tranquility of green, foliage-lined Sulphur Creek
and the Fremont River. I can still hear the echoes of the tremendous,
thundering, rock-rolling and pounding floods that overflowed the creek
channel after a cloud burst in the Upper Country. Those floods always
scared the heck out of me.
of the people I knew in those days are gone now – gone to explore and
settle other lands in the hereafter – my mother, my father, Uncle Cass
and Aunt Marie Mulford, Dicey and Will Chestnut, Clarence Chestnut and
his cousin Glenn, Dan Adams, old Brother and Sister Jorgensen, Nell
Gifford. They're all gone, but their voices, their laughter, and their
weeping– in times that were both good and bad, still linger in the echoes
of the ledges of Fruita.