As
a young boy, on some mornings I woke to Daddy’s inviting me to “the ranch” for
a horseback ride. It was typically when
I was out of school for the summer, and very early in the day so he could still
get to his downtown office on time. He had
purchased the barren property and the little old farm house, I presume for an
investment, as it was conveniently located south of the Salt Lake airport, a promised land for commercial development.
Our horse property was blessed with a canal running through it, providing me with
my first experience building and floating a raft. Like our backyard at home on Second Avenue,
it had a supply of old lumber that was also begging to be used for a play house. Rafting was great fun, but my grandiose
architectural plan for a two-story house was a dream not realized beyond the first
floor – without walls. However, I worked
hard at it for a time, and saved the plan for a future opportunity. If someone had thought to take a photograph
of it, I could post it, and laugh or cry.
My
parents’ friend stored an antique fire engine there in the garage. I also recall dating his daughter Janet in
high school; we probably discussed her dad’s hobby of collecting old fire engines. One January, my uncle had his Scouts collect their neighbors' Christmas trees, haul them to “the ranch”, and build a monstrous fire at night under the
flight path; it probably alarmed some guys in the control tower nearby – not to mention pilots and passengers.
South of Salt Lake City International Airport, courtesy Google Maps
