Memories of Days Gone By (written by Wynn Covieo)

In the sixty plus years I’ve been around,
The memories that stand out most,
Are the times I spent in Grouse Creek,
With my Grandpa and Grandma as hosts.

Riding the train across the Great Salt Lake,
With enough baggage in tow for ten,
Then ridin’ to Grouse Creek in the mail truck ,
From the old railroad town of Lucin.

Driving what seemed like 20 miles per hour,
In Dave Paskett’s old dusty pickup truck,
A wishin’ and a hopin’ he would hurry,
Because I was surely going to throw up.

Racing horses on the 4th of July,
Up the side of the Grouse Creek road,
Watchin’ the parade from the front yard,
And wearin’ a coat because it was cold.

Riding in the back of Grandpas Jeep,
My brother and I running up the hills,
Getting left behind yet once again,
As Grandpa sped up to give us a thrill.

Buildin’ a fence in ground too hard,
To dig a hole for the cedar post,
Grandpa getting shocked by lightnin’,
And cussin’ and turnin’ white as a ghost.

Ridin’our horses down the mountainside,
Holdin’ them back so they wouldn’t run,
So steep they were a slippin’ and a slidin’
Thinkin’ there is nothin’ that’s more fun.

Grandpa sitting proudly on the back,
Of Silver his big buckskin horse,
Knowing that he had mounted it,
While it was lying down of course.

Dances in the basement of the old church,
With the Grouse Creek Orchestra a playin’,
Kids sleepin’ on the benches up on the stage’
While their moms and dads were a dancin’.

Grandma showing us how to catch fish,
Over at the Etna Reservoir,
Know that if we caught enough,
A delicious dinner we’d have for sure.

The smell of burning cedar wood,
Fresh eggs cookin’ in bacon grease,
Sourdough biscuits cookin’ in the oven,
Kneelin’ in prayer before we would eat.

The pungent smell of warm raw milk,
Being poured in the hand separator,
The sound of it a turnin’ and a humin’,
Grandma usin’ the cream to make fresh butter.

Chasing a horse around the pasture,
Trying to get that darned bridle on,
Only to have Grandpa tell me,
Once again you put it on wrong.

The strong smell of burning hair,
While branding newborn calves,
And listening to them bellar,
While putting in the metal ear tags.

Working all day in the hot sun,
And lifting heavy bales of hay,
Trying to load them on the slip,
Before the tractor pulled it away.

The old pump organ a playin’
Those old familiar church songs,
Raida playin’ and Naomi a leadin’
And everyone singin’ along.

Choppin’ and cuttin’ up dead cedar trees,
At night under the big yard light,
Deterimed to fill the wood box,
Makin’ sure it was stacked just right.

Ignoring Grandmas final words,
Wynn don’t play with that washer ringer,
Only to have that old washin’ machine,
Nearly tear off my index finger.

The sound of the back gate slammin’,
As all of us grandkids ran away,
To play make believe in the old house,
Or play hide and seek in a stack of hay.

Coyote pups a howlin’ to each other,
Way off in the dark, dark night,
With stars from horizon to horizon,
Oh what a beautiful sight.

Hearin’ wind a blowin’ through the trees
The smell of a welcome spring rain,
The sound of gravel under hoof,
As cowboys rode their horses up the lane.

Makin’ a daily trip to the Co-op,
To visit friends and buy a cold pop,
Until the store keeper Merlin got tired of us,
And ran us off with his cattle hot shot.

To each our Grouse Creek memories,
May not be all the same,
But if your memories are bad ones,
You’ve got no one else to blame.

THANKS TO MY GRANDPARENTS WINFRED CHARLES KIMBER AND OLIVE TANNER KIMBER (originally posted 2012)