We think we know who this photo belongs to, but we are asking anyway.

Sometimes it is difficult to sort things out with photos and papers that date in our family history.  For one reason or another, I have been collecting thousands upon thousands of papers and artifacts since our family and friends arrived in the Utah arena during the Mormon march here in 1847. I came across this photo and although I think I know who it belongs to, I know I better put it on here as it is open to the public around the world, and even had family contact me from England a few year ago. So if you want this photo, claim it and I will deliver deleter de sooner de better. On the back, it appears to be of Wilma and Bill Pyper with their grandchildren of Wendy, Tara, Greg, Mark and Scott. It may have been taken in 1966.

IN CASE YOU MISSED THE 1983 FUNERAL OF FRANK TOLLEY, WE HAVE ONE FOR YOU.

It seems to me that if you or somebody you know has a last name of Tolley and they lived in Utah, Idaho, Canada or anywhere west of Cornwall of England, or go back even to France, we all just may be related. Frank Tolley is the son of Uncle Hy Tolley, who is the son of Wm. Fisher Tolley and one of his wives when Brigham Young said it was just fine and dandy. Frank lived down below the tracks where his son Roy Tolley finished out his last days of earth life. As a kid, I would pass papers to Frank and next door to his mother in laws place in the still standing log home. She pretended she didn't understand English, only her native Indian language, but I had heard her speak English, but Frank was always good to be and would often cough up the $1.60 a month I was supposed to collect for the Daily Herald back then. Lots of stories of the old west could be told about what went by the creek that run between Franks home and the tracks, but we will wait for another time to talk of Avenging Angels that left the Nephi downtown area and went along that direction. But to me, he had a great family, and his son Roy knew about every place in Nephi that a water line was placed and the City would often call him who had it all down in his head. My hat goes off to Frank. 

ITS THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN-NATIONAL RODEO FINALS IN VEGAS

 For ten days in Vegas, the real sport of the United States put animals with and against Cowboys to see who wins. For us Nephi Jones Boys, it is better than Christmas; And we are proud of the Utah Boys from Utah and especially the Wright Family of Beaver County. They are showing what family togetherness is all about. We may need your help this year though. The financially squeezer is on us common folks that pretend to be cowboys. The hotels are doing triple the cost of the past, most goes to the building of a new professional football stadium with many of those players turning in to anti-Americans. We found it cheaper to rent a 1967 VW that we can fit all our gear in and place a one ton bale of three way hay on the top and try to pay for our room. What the heck, it is worth the chance. And Johnny's Bail Bonds accepts money in advance, just in case we decide to keep throwing cans of Spam at the street urchins who get in their Mercedes and drives away.

FREE THANKSGIVING COOKIES at Trader Joe Garretts place!

Don't run up to Joe's place, as all the cookies are gone! Joe's daughter-Marian gave all two of them to my sister-Jaynette and I, but my-oh my, they were good. It was a Trade deal. I was willing to give her an original photo of her Dad-Joe Garrett, if she gave me something. We are both learned as youngsters that you didn't have to buy or sell anything, it was just a trade deal with all the Garretts. And as a youngster, I was the one kid that was nominated to clean up the cow manure at Spin Mac's milk shop and carry our share of the milk home, and I was the only one in the family that hated milk! Anyway, I was going through old photos and found one that had my fathers note on the back and thought it was Joe Garrett as a kid. Back 100 years ago, even real men as youngsters wore dress type skirts and Marian recognized it immediately. She had the best "trader" gift for me, giving me a cowboy pillow and hand made. I prized it and she liked the old photo. And she picked the best fish and chip shop in Utah. Thanks Cousin, and we won't list your age, but I think she is almost an adult, but she is still a smart ass, so she has some Jones still in her, just like another cousin-Emma Ockey Carter.

"JIMMY CRACK CORN" and I did care!

As  a kid in Elementary School, we often sang the song "Jimmy Crack Corn and I don't care-My Masters gone away". At the time we enjoyed singing the song, having no idea what it meant at the time. We no longer hear that song, as some folks think it was offensive  like doing away with the gal who made the Aunt Jemimah flour or cake mix. To bad, but you kant changed history, but learn to deal with it. As a high school student, I found my father and his four sons working on a part time basis at the Juab County Flour Mill, as I didn't know it at the time, but we were helping our parents help make ends meet. There were a lot of good people working there including King Sidwell and the Powell family and Bert Winn. When I started singing the song, it was the time I first learned it was written prior to the Civil War and written by a Black Slave who liked his owner, but didn't mind it when he died. At the time, I was concentrating more on making sure we filled up the small bags of flour for different companies, then later go to Ralphs market and find that the prices were different, even though all the flour came from the same crush bin. I knew it was all good, as it was from the Levan Ridge. I bring this up, as last week, I was feeding "cracked corn" to help fatten up a Steer, and decided to take a photo of  a 1940's Flour Mill receipt, then take a photo of the cracked wheat I was feeding. Take a gander at all the various flours that were made right down town in a great rural town that ain't rural anymore, as outsiders want it to be just like the big city they came from! Lot of stuff in earth life that doesn't make any Cents!

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VOTER TURNOUT WAS 88 % OF REGISTERED VOTERS

Well, just like major media, their must be some tricky dicky stuff going on here.....but...but....it is kinda of true. It was in November, 1976, so says The Times News! So there. If you have been a Juab County resident for the past 50 years, you will remember much of what was happening in these parts and recognize many of the people, and even my Uncle Grant Jones, who was not doing to well at the time. You may even be able to spot some of the little kids in the Second Grade Thanksgiving musical. This is the only paper I need to read, and I will keep searching the old family papers to see if Harry S. Truman won the Presidential Election that one year. But don't go stand in line at Allen's to get your Thanksgiving Pumpkin Pie. I stood there all afternoon and they never opened. But I am going back over to the Venice Show House, as a John Wayne and Lauren Bacall movie is on and you know what they were like off screen! Yee gads, what is our small town turning into!

THIS HISTORY LESSON GIVES HINTS ON HOW "NOT" TO SHOW YOU ARE A MAN.

For one reason or another, when men are young, they desire to be older and tougher looking, and when we get old, we want to appear young and buff. Some gals fall for that stupidly, but some folks can see deeper than what is skin deep. Call it too much Testosterone and no smart genes, but difficult to be other than what we were born with. At the overripe age of 75, I look at some photos of the past and see self samples of why I am a Simpleton! The last photo shows this stupide driving his jeep down Elephant Hill near Moab, Utah. That suicide 4 wheel road is considered the most technical and dangerous road in Utah. So me and my hiking buddies had no other choice other than to do it. Thirty years ago, I was a Sinner and the guy on my blind side was a Saint, who prayed for us on the way down. The guys in the back got out to watch from above, and at least I knew their were gals along the cliff to watch bodies fly. We knew  when any vehicle that goes off the slickrock at SilverRock had to pay for the four wheeler and the helicopter ride to take the body remains out. So what, my Testosteronal's called me out. Don Blanchard hollered which way to move and I skillfully maneuvered it, and yes, I was sober, just no sense! And there was plenty of gals for the pickin, but on our successful return, none were going to pick me. Oh well! Act Two was on March 10, 1973. It was at Alta Airport in the east part of Salt Lake County(which is now all homes). Me and my college roommate-Bob Pliley decided to do our first parachute jump. It was only to show off to the gals we invited along to wrongfully impress. Bob has now been successfully married to Judy for 40 years and I have been "successfully" divorced for 40 years, so all battlegrounds are neutral. Bob was the smart one, as he knew he could impress gals with his heart, money and brain, but not Jones. He wanted to impress that blonde bombshell, but it didn't work well. In those days, the jumper would stand on the wheel axle of a fixed plane and when the co-pilot waved, you jumped and pulled your own rip cord. I thought he was waving me to jump, but he was telling me to come back in as they were over the homes that were built around the airport, like what is going on with Airport # 2 in West Jordan. Part way down the Freefall, I came to my senses; pulled the rip cord, but only saw homes and no airport. I landed in the backyard of  a family home, and hit hard enough to knock me out. By the time the rescue folks found me I had one hell of  backache. The worst thing about it, "Patti" wasn't impressed. Okay, third time is a charm, right. The Hell it was! A herd of cops on motorcycles were heading up Spanish Fork Canyon to meet at a Law Enforcement Conference in Moab. As we drove up the road, we could see a lot of hay bales scattered along the right side, so most of the Harley Cops went speeding ahead to stop the truck. Me and my partner stayed behind to move the bales of the road then help the two young gals buck up the bales. I held my gut in and since I hauled hay as a kid, I knew I could it again, although 45 years old. Nope and neither could my buddy-Dennis. I thought I was "in love" with the gal on my right, but as you can see by her face, I was all show and no biceps, and that is the end of the story.  A sad but true story. In the next life, perhaps, just perhaps, I will hire a woman to be my Coach to find a date, but for now, all that we learn here on earth is to teach us for eternal life!