DAY 44 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

Dale and his little brother Jack

On October 14, 1916, my grandparents, Frances Evans and John Lewis Roe, gave birth to their first child, Dale Evans Roe. Dad grew up in Preston, Idaho, and was surrounded by family most of his early life.

   When he was only 14-years-old his mother died suddenly, leaving his father to raise three young boys alone. Grandpa was a very rough-and-tumble man – who had played Professional Baseball, rode for the Pony Express, and ran a newspaper (the Preston Citizen). Dad’s dad was ill-equipped to be a single father. My dad told me that one time Grandpa had a business trip to go on, so he took the three boys (age 10-15) up by the Bear River to Camp-Out while he was gone for a few days – he left them with blankets, a fishing pole, and a hunting knife. Fortunately Grandma’s sisters, especially Mary and Erma, helped out with the boys frequently – and Dad maintained close relationships with “The Aunts” for the rest of their lives.

The 3 Boys: Bryce, Jack, Dale

   Dale graduated from Preston High in 1933, at age 16 (he had skipped 7th grade with my mom) – and started at the “AC” (now known as Utah State University) immediately. He had always worked at The Citizen, and continued to do so – and commuted from Preston to Logan, usually by hitchhiking. He and a few friends had what we would call a “Crash Pad” nowadays where he would stay over during bad weather. He told me that they used to keep a “Community Pot” on the stove, and everyone would just throw what veggies/meat/etc. they could come up with – and they just kept the pot of soup going for days on end.

   While in college, Dad also started dating Mom. She worked at Merrill’s Drug in Preston, and he would often go visit her at work – where she would sneak extra Malted into his shakes. They were married in 1936 (see post here), and Dad graduated from Utah State Agricultural College in 1937 – he was 20-years-old.

Dale at the Preston Citizen

   When he was age 23, Dad bought out his grandfather’s half of the Preston Citizen – making him the youngest newspaper owner in Idaho history (at least at the time). His grandpa, Watkin Lewis Roe, had founded the Citizen, and Dad was 3rd generation in the newspaper business – and since many uncles and cousins have followed in this family tradition.

   When World War II started, Dad and his father decided that they should sell the Preston Citizen – knowing they would both be involved in the war effort. Dad had been assigned a Draft Number and it was only a matter of time before he would be Called Up. And Grandpa was an expert machinist (from fixing newspaper presses his whole life), so he wanted to help with the war effort also – ending up in San Diego, working on Navy Vessels.

   Since his Senior Year of high school, Dad had also worked for the American Red Cross – starting as a Life Guard. Dad could swim like a fish – and could basically do anything in water. So as the war began, Red Cross assigned Dad to do Survival Training at military bases around the country. He taught midshipmen how to jump off a Battleship (a 50-foot drop) without breaking their legs. He taught soldiers how to swim through lakes that the Japanese would set on fire. He was sent to Wendover, Utah, to train Doolittle’s Raiders those survival skills – no one knowing that their mission would so drastically change the course of the war.

Teaching lifesaving -- dad is far right (in plaid)

   Through all of WWII, Dad continued this training – waiting for his number to be called. He would be on a base doing the training, and he would get notification that his number had been called and he was to report immediately. He would go to the Base Commander and show his orders, and the Base Commander would say, “This training is too valuable. I will get your number reassigned.” During the course of the war Dad had dozens of Draft Numbers, each one reassigned. He spent the entire war on military bases training soldiers – and did it all as a civilian working for the American Red Cross. He was never drafted.

My father
Dale Evans Roe

   As you can tell, my dad was my hero. And he still is. I have never known a kinder or gentler man. He was brilliant, funny, and a fabulous writer. He greeted everyone he met as a friend, and considered strangers just friends he hadn’t met yet. Dad loved everyone, and was generous and giving of his time and talents. He was a spiritual giant, and truly emulated the Savior in the way he lived his life.

   Today would have been his 98th birthday, and even though he has been gone nearly 10 years I still miss him every single day. And I am so grateful that he and Mom were crazy enough to adopt a newborn at age 50 and let me be part of their lives.

   Happy Birthday, Dad!

DAY 30 - WHERE DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM?

Although I started this for myself, I’m surprised at how many people are reading my blog: over 3500 in the past month, and 8000+ ever. When I look at Facebook I’ll see a post that has maybe a dozen “Likes” and maybe a comment or two – and then go look at the Stats on my blog and see that over 200 people have read it.

   Don’t get me wrong – I am incredibly flattered. I started this 83-day Journey for myself, but between the Comments, Facebook Messages, and personal conversations I am learning that there are quite a few people out there that are silently reading it. And from a few of the messages I’ve received, it’s helping others too.

   As a kid, I used to press my ear against my bedroom wall – and early mornings and late nights I could hear the tap-tap-tap of my father typing in the Kitchen. Dad was always a writer. Born into a newspaper family, he grew up with ink in his blood – and watched his father and grandfather work at getting the paper out together every day. When he was age 23, Dad bought out his grandfather’s share of the Preston Citizen – and was the youngest newspaper owner in Idaho’s history (at least at the time). Even long after he sold (due to WWII), he continue to write – Red Cross, United Way, Kiwanis, and pretty much any organization he was involved in benefitted from his gift for writing. He was the editor of the Cal-Nev-Ha newspaper for Kiwanis for over 20 years. Even into his 80s, Dad worked on his Personal History – and a novel he’d always wanted to write, that he passed along to me to finish. And it’s literally in our blood, because among my uncles and cousins, there are at least a dozen of us that write – both personally and professionally. I guess it’s just what Roes do.

   And in today’s society, we are readers. We are Information Junkies. Even within Facebook, I think my newstream is filled with as many Shared Links as personally posted photos and updates. Nobody uses an encyclopedia anymore – we just Google it, and often end up on someone’s blog. Sometimes just for a random bit of information or instruction, sometimes we follow blogs of specific people we like or are interested in.

   We have become Internet Voyeurs. Without even leaving our house, we can be Peeping Toms, looking into the windows of people all over the country, all over the world. Through their blogs we sneak-a-peek through their curtains and see what it going on inside. And as someone who lives in a glass house, I have admittedly left the curtains wide open.

   Sometimes I write something that I expect to get read, like Divorce vs. Annulment – because it was something that I couldn’t find information about. Sometimes it’s something that I know is a bit of a “Hot Topic” like Women and the Priesthood  – which I want to express my opinion about. But sometimes it’s just my personal ramblings about my messy desk or playing the piano – and still they get read. And there is something about knowing that people are reading that pushes me to continue to write, to try to be funny or eloquent, to push myself as a writer more than I ever have.

   That’s really why I started blogging – because it pushes me beyond my own limits. I’ve been a rather faithful Journal Writer for many years. Many (if not most) of my journal entries never get finished – but I just stop when I run out of time. But with blogging, it has to be thought-out and complete. I write a rough draft, and I go back and edit it (usually a couple of times). I take some time to find a photo or quote (or two) that I think adds to my own words. It’s a finished and completed Writing – hopefully with a cherry on top.

   Because, in reality, it isn’t just a few hundred random words that I’m putting out there – it’s a part of me, maybe the deepest part of me. Writing is looking deep within, and finding some small piece of my soul to share with the world – and polishing it and shaping it. For most of my life, all of my writing just got shoved in a drawer or tucked on a shelf. But this blogging world has allowed me to put my heart out there. It’s scary – rather terrifying – to do, but also incredibly rewarding too.

   So I do it, every day, for a whole month now. Putting my heart on paper, and waiting – wondering what people will think. For the most part, I have no idea what people really think. These Internet Voyeurs stalk around silently, so I have no idea who they are or what they think. But I am grateful for the positive comments from friends, and for the reading by strangers too. And, because I have shared this piece of my soul with you, that somehow connects us – makes us friends. And more than the thousands of clicks on my blog, I’m grateful for the hundreds of new connections that I have out there in the world.

I will write until not a single word 

remains in my soul … 

until every story in my heart has been told … 

until my mind’s well of ideas is bone dry … 

and even then I will write on 

because writing is not just something I do 

but part of who I am.