Well, I got a little behind during Christmas. The house got new carpeting throughout and I've been busy lifting heavy furniture around and trying to stay ahead of the carpet layers. We used to be able to lift things around all day long, but now although we are still capable, we sure feel it more the next day and the next and the next. It takes a little longer to recuperate from strenuous activities. I watched Wynn out riding around on his snowblower this morning and was reminded of that first winter in Mink Creek. It must have been late August in 1983 and we were standing in the driveway together looking at our home and making big plans when Wynn said, "I want to see the worst. I want to know how bad a winter can get up here." Whoa, wrong wish!
   It started snowing on his birthday, September 23 and I don't think it quit until March and it was cold. We had frozen pipes, many times. We had snow blowing in through the single pane un-caulked windows. You could sit on the couch, watch your hair blow and get snow down your neck. The wood stove was working night and day but we just couldn't get warm. We had cut what we thought was enough firewood for the season and piled it in what seemed to be a convenient location in front of the tin shed. Ooops. We didn't realize that the slick tin roof would be dumping all of its snow collection right off onto our woodpile. It only took one big snowstorm and Wynn had to start mining for wood. As the winter progressed, he  actually tunnelled in and made a cave he could crawl around in and come out with an armload of wood. We had a propane down-draft furnace sitting in the middle of the kitchen propped up on legs made from Isomil baby formula cans and we nestled around it.
  Our 250 foot long driveway had to be shovelled by hand, since we couldn't afford to own any equipment and we turned into human snowplows. However, as the snow continued it soon became almost impossible to throw it high enough. We had snow walls on either side well over head height.
  We also had a chimney fire that first winter. The attic filled with smoke, it took the fire department forty minutes to respond, and we learned that we would have to be prepared to handle major incidents on our own.
  Mink Creek has been one long lesson in self-reliance. It's been good for us. The family learned how to be a real team and work together through so many challenges. We don't sit around and expect the government to "fix it" or wait until the county can come and help, or wonder why the local utilities don't get their act together. We realize that we are the resource and we've got wonderful neighbors who are also resourceful and willing to come to our aid. They've been here for us from that first winter when they came with loads of wood and a clean up crew after the chimney fire and we've responded when they needed help. Working together is what a Mink Creek kind of day is all about.

   When Wynn wrapped up his teaching job at Millville Elementary in the spring of 1983, we were finally ready to move home to Mink Creek. He hadn't been able to get hired in Preston. His master's degree wasn't an asset to a struggling school district that could only afford to  hire less-qualified teachers, but he had secured a position for the coming fall at North Cache in Richmond, Utah and the commute wasn't too bad.
   We moved our belongings into the house, but it was really so cold and old that we continued to live outside for the summer. We were up at dawn and working until the sun went down. Lynn Nelson's log house had to have our main focus and it was rising log by log in the front yard, but we also had to be able to live in the old house by wintertime and there was no inside plumbing that worked.
   We had an outhouse which was falling apart and full of bees, so when the children had to go, they would always plead with me to let them go "where the cows go" which was out in the field instead of using the latrine. We had been "stockpiling" building materials in the chicken coop for years. When the Layton apartments we managed were gutted and remodelled we started collecting everything that was reuseable. We had a couple of toilets, a hundred windows, some playground equipment. and lumber. People started hearing the rumor that we were in need and willing to work for the used stuff and we just became little pack rats taking whatever was offered and storing it until we could install it.
  Wynn strung a clothesline up for me and we set Grandma Allen's old wringer washer up by the outside spigot. A long extension cord brought power from the house. I had to use "Cold Power," detergent because it was the only powder that would dissolve in the icy water of Strawberry Creek. We'd fill the washer with water from a hose, plug it in and watch it dance around the lawn merrily agitating. Eight year old Hannah ran each newly washed article through the wringer and seven year-old Kate caught them and made sure they got in the basket. Five year old Josie picked each one up and ran it over to me so I could hang it up on the line. We tried trading around jobs, but Kate and Josie were always getting their fingers caught in the wringer which brought the whole process to a grinding halt, and two year old Landon was just busy getting as wet as possible.
   When the hose wasn't in the washing machine, we would snake it through the kitchen window into the sink to do the dishes. Wynn painted an old water heater black and put it up roof height, (he got this idea from reading "Mother Earth News,") this delivered hot water right into the house. A garden spray nozzle was attached, the hose was reinserted through the old bathroom window and voile we could have a hot shower. Wynn proudly marched into the bathroom, shut the door and disrobed to give his new invention a trial. We were all eagerly awaiting a report and our own turns. There was a resounding wail of pain as he pointed that nozzle at his innocent pink flesh and squirted a stream of 220 degree water all over himself. Oooops! There was a major flaw in the design. There was no way to mix in cold water. We learned to wait for prime time, when the sun went behind the west hill and the night breeze cooled down the tank, then we all lined up for the shower.
   Wynn got a used toilet installed, so I could quit running outside in the middle of the night with the small children. We thought there was a septic tank somewhere, but it turned out to just be an old clay pipe running straight to the creek with every flush, so a septic system before winter had to be managed in the budget somehow.
   We patiently worked through one challenge after another. The plumbing was just the tip of the iceberg. There were more challenges ahead. There always are. And if you make them a fun adventure you are having a Mink Creek kind of day.

   The fall of 1982 marked a new phase in my own life. I had previously substituted as the hunting camp cook a couple of times on the Deseret Land and Livestock where Mesia was living. Her husband Gregg Simonds was the ranch manager. At the time, this 250,000 acre ranch was owned by a Chinaman named Ho Tung, and the hunting program was being started by Mesia as a new form of income for the ranch. My mother, as well as Mesia and Rochelle had been taking turns doing the cooking, but in 1982 the job became mine. It was a job I would keep for the next 25 years. During my tenure, the camp went from a cabin with 2 bedrooms and one bath and one kitchen counter to a new lodge with 12 bedrooms, 14 bathrooms and 2 dishwashers. In the early years, I spent two weeks with eight men each week and by the end we had 30 each week for 5 weeks, and the price of a hunting tag probably tripled.
   It was a great time. Those first years, the job was like a vacation for me. Wynn's mom helped with the children, and I got to take off and have a week full of conversation with some very interesting men. I also got to go grocery shopping with unlimited funds. Not having to count every penny as I put items in my carts, was a real joy.
   Some day, I will write my hunting camp stories, but for now I will just say that when the leaves began to fall and the air turned crispy cool everyone knew that hunting season had arrived and Cecelie would be headed for Deseret. It was just a part of the season and rhythm of life, the natural thing to do when you get to live a Mink Creek kind of life.

   As fall approached in '82 we loaded up all of our summer gear and began shuttling everything back to Millville for the school year. We vowed it would be the last time we left Mink Creek. On the last run, we packed the red Datsun station wagon chuck full of children and the "last minute" items. Everything from the fridge and freezer, to bedding, to the cat. We were loaded to the hilt and it was late at night and the car had been acting up.
   By the time we reached the "Y" in the road just on the south end of Logan, we were limping along at about 20 mph.. The kids were crying, the cat was moaning and pacing, going from window to window meowing mournfully. Her voice was my voice. We all just wanted out. We discussed what we would do if the car quit, and decided that I would sit there with the kids while Wynn hitched a ride to the house and came back with the truck and a tow strap. I kept praying the car would make it the few more miles we had to go.
   All of a sudden, the dark night was fractured by blaring streaks of red and blue light flashing in the rear view mirror and blinding everyone in the car. The eyes of the children and the cat were as big as saucers. I couldn't imagine what the officer wanted. We certainly weren't speeding.
   The officer approached scanning every window with his spotlight. The cat dug her claws into my arm as I tried to prevent her escape when Wynn rolled down his window.
   "Where are you going?" asked the officer.
   "Just back to our house in Millville," Wynn answered. "We're moving back for the school year. This is the last load."
   "You're driving erratically," said the patrolman.
   "The car is having trouble," answered Wynn. "We're just hoping we can make it the rest of the way."
   "Well, you're driving too slow for this big road. I won't give you a ticket, but I'm going to have to ask you to turn around and go back to that last road and go east and get off of this main busy highway."
   I couldn't believe it. It was close to midnight. "Busy highway???" There wasn't another car in sight; the last car to pass us was ten minutes ago. A detour down some field road was going to take us even longer. The cat hissed at him. My feelings exactly. The officer sat in his car and watched us turn around and crawl back to the other road and turn right.  Halfway through the cornfield the car sputtered and quit and there we sat. No hope of another motorist stopping to help on that little road. I honestly don't remember what happened next. I think after a short frustrated rest, the Datsun must have started again and we made it the rest of the way, but let me tell you that was not a Mink Creek kind of day. In Mink Creek that officer would have hooked up his tow strap and pulled you home and then he probably would have helped you unload the car when he got you there.

   

    In the summer of 1982, we left Layton and moved into a house my sister, Mesia, owned in Millville, Utah, where Wynn had a teaching job lined up for the fall. It was one step closer to Mink Creek.
   We had a deadline in our contract with Lynn Nelson. We had five years to build the cabin in exchange for the house, so we were eager to get started. Unfortunately, Lynn did not have a piece of property to put the cabin on and the clock was ticking. We decided we would cut the trees down and build the cabin up to the "square" in the front yard of Mink Creek and then take it apart like "Lincoln logs" and put it back together on whatever property Lynn finally purchased.
   We bought a stand of trees in Wayan, Idaho, and the little silver trailer became a logging camp. Wynn turned into a flannel shirt wearing lumberjack with a couple of chainsaws, wedges, a sledge hammer, and a couple of peaveys. The four children and I visited whenever we could. We were in the forest with him for two of the most memorable experiences.
    First, one of the trees Wynn wanted to cut down was the home of a very busy hive of big black paper wasps in which they had constructed a monster paper cone. He resolved to cut it down anyway. He mapped out his escape route back to the trailer and started up his chainsaw. He tried to be sneaky by cutting from the back side of their tree, but the noise wasn't really conducive to secrecy. As the tree began to tip and fall, the bees were onto him; as the crunching of breaking branches began, Wynn dropped his saw and took off running for the trailer. So did the bees. He got stung twice before he cleared the doorway. We slammed the door shut behind him and watched the swarm attack the trailer. That was the end of work for the day. Those angry bees buzzed around the trailer all afternoon, but we were safe inside.
   There was a second incident when being inside the trailer didn't make us feel safe. It was a thunder storm. In the mountains, storms roll in quickly and with a severe ferocity. We saw the black clouds billowing our way and listened as the distant thunder grew louder and louder. The light dropped away and night came early. The tall pines were dancing, creaking, moaning, and branches along with the debris of needles and cones started falling like rain. I gathered up the children. Wynn picked up his equipment and we took shelter in the trailer. The first crack of thunder directly over us was deafening. The ground shook and then it really got loud. Lightning was illuminating the forest and the noise was so loud the trailer began to shake and bounce. We felt like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery. There were flashes of blinding white light followed by the rapid fire of thunderbolts. I'm telling you the noise was a dangerous weapon, and I was praying that our little trailer wasn't going to act like a lightning rod and get us hit.  We spent a sleepless night bouncing around in a noisy neon light show and took a nap the next morning as the pines dripped and the fragrant breeze began to dry things out. Being part of nature and understanding how we fit in, accepting how "little" we really are on this earth and what things we can and can't control are all part of having a Mink Creek kind of day.

   I'm tucked inside my warm little den, watching lazy snow flakes floating down outside my window. It's a good day for reflection, and good time of life for contemplation. I'm in the autumn of my life, (I won't admit to winter that starts around eighty years old), and its the time of life for evaluating what you've done and what you still want to do. You ask questions about what was really worth it, what would you have done differently, and you start giving advice.  So here's mine. Work together. When Wynn and I were working together, not just physically but mentally and spiritually working together on the same page  we were awesome! When the children were added into the mix, we became an incredible team. So be amazing, and I'll get back to my history.
   It was while Wynn was finishing the house in Blanding that I rented the Hyrum place, and you know how that turned out. We ended up in the basement of Grandma Costleys. During all of this, Wynn was working a car cleaning business of his own called Tidy Car and helping my dad remodel some apartments. Our research proved that the best place to get a teaching degree was from Weber State College, so we looked around for a place to live in the Ogden area. We found the perfect arrangement as managers for a low-income, government subsidized housing complex in Layton, right next to the freeway and right under the approach to Hill Air force Base.
  They were big three and four bedroom apartments made out of cinder block. You couldn't put any furniture against the wall because the walls were always weeping and the black mould was prolific. Our largest ethnic group was Laotian and the smell of their cooking wafting about on a summer evening breeze was nauseating. I don't want to know what they were cooking, and I'm really glad I didn't have to eat it.
  There were children everywhere. I counted 32 kids in my apartment one day. We added Landon to our own family circle while we lived in Layton and Hannah started school at Lincoln Elementary. While I was surrounded with children and tenants with problems all day, Wynn was off to school. He had been accepted into the education department at WSC and was taking a full load. In the final weeks of his schooling we got a phone call from Blair Lowe, one of his advisors; he offered Wynn a position in the Teacher Corps program which would give him a living stipend, a full scholarship and a Masters degree. Weber State was only a college at the time, so the Masters degree had to be jointly sponsored by Utah State University.  It was a deal we couldn't refuse even though it would keep us in Layton an additional two years. Sigh. Some days, dreaming about  the solitude of Mink Creek was the only thing that kept me moving forward, and I learned that finding peace in the middle of chaos could make a Mink Creek kind of day even in Layton, Utah.