stuart james beall

PART FIVE – March 1987 to June 1988

I wanted to expand my social life, to meet a variety of women. The places that seemed to have the most single women my age were the LDS Institute Of Religion, LDS church dances, and LDS singles wards. My church was my facilitator.

A good friend, Shawn, would drive us to the weekend young singles dances, in his Honda Accord. A couple of blind dates were arranged by a friend at the Institute Of Religion.

Some dances were hosted by the Granger 28th Singles Ward. I wanted to join the 28th Ward; all I needed was a note or permission slip from my bishop, to have my membership record transferred.

My bishop, under direction from the stake president, refused to do this for me. I quietly decided it was time for me to look for a new place to live.

My mother seemed to be dissatisfied with me for not discussing all my goals and activities with her. She expected to be informed in advance of my arrival and departure times. I felt this was unreasonable, because a successful social life required flexibility; changing plans when a better opportunity presented itself; spending extra time socializing when things were going well.

I wanted my own house, but not many houses on the market were in my budget. I was limited, by my relatively low salary, to houses priced below thirty-one thousand dollars. When my mother learned I was looking at houses for sale, this made her upset. She acted as though when I moved away from her, she would be losing her only son.

With the help of a real estate agent, I found a duplex in the outskirts of Magna, which had been repossessed by HUD. It needed lots of tender loving care. I took it, because I could do the repairs at my own pace, and having my own place was having some independence.

Put $1000 dollars forth as a down-payment, and got an FHA loan. I signed many more papers than seemed reasonable at the closing meeting.

My mother began to accept my independence when she bought a new refrigerator for the house.

Technically, each duplex on Copper Cove Circle was shared by two different owners, under a condominium agreement. The house and yard maintenance were the responsibility of each individual owner. Fortunately for me, the occupants on the other side of my duplex were very friendly and cooperative.

The first item of business at my new residence, was to clean the carpets. My mother owned a Bissel wet vacuum, which was a great help to me. I went over the entire front room carpet repeatedly, for at least three days, using heavy applications of ammonia to loosen the grease. Then I started painting the front room. One of my new neighbors, Kevin Myler, arrived and helped me with the painting. The remainder of the house got painted after I patched holes in the walls.

The most difficult repair to deal with was the rainwater drain in my driveway. It was entirely clogged so that after every rainstorm, my driveway and garage were filled with water. I consulted some of the men in my elders quorum at church, but none of them seemed to know what to do. One neighbor tried to help me by pounding a rod down into the drain hole; this broke through the clay-bed, and allowed the water to drain away, but it was only temporary. One source of the problem was the rain-gutter spout, which eroded soil from a garden strip onto my driveway, then into the clogged drain. So I shored up the garden strip by patching some gaps in the railroad ties. This minimized the soil erosion.

It seemed that if I could suck out the clay and silt underlying my drain, it would allow the water to drain properly. Using my garden hose, I repeatedly squirted water around to agitate the inside of the drain. With my mother’s Bissel vacuum, I sucked the water and silt out. The vacuum also pulled out gravel and at least 15 golf balls. After a couple hours of this, the water began draining faster than I could vacuum it out.

Replaced two doors upstairs, plus the mangled rain gutter across the front of the house. I painted the decorative shutters on either side of the front windows, then the garage door.

One thing that didn’t get replaced was the huge front double-pane window, which had become unsealed and contaminated with water vapor and fungus. The manufacturer was still on-the-hook to honor the warranty and replace it, but they kept putting me off. Each time I made a call, their phone was busy, or they told me to call back when the person in charge of that was in the office.

To furnish the house, I obtained two sofas from Shane’s sister, a recliner from Todd Kehl, a desk and microwave oven from cousin Bob Wall, a set of Levelor blinds for the windows from my neighbor Kevin. My mother provided the dining table, my solid maple wood dresser with mirror (which she had purchased for me at the Stratford Avenue house), and a refrigerator. Had no television set, and didn’t want one. Had no telephone service, and didn’t want it.

A member of my ward in Magna, Ron Garrard, practically arranged for me to go out with his karate instructor. When I visited his karate class, the instructor said she knew all about me. She was gorgeous; all I had to do was ask for her phone number, but I didn’t do it.

Sometimes, I was tempted to pursue one of my neighbors on Copper Cove Circle, a single mother of three. She was from Britain, and prior to her marriage, had been an active member of the LDS church. She had a pleasant personality, and a slender, attractive body. Her children liked to visit with me in the yard while I worked, which according to her, made her ex-husband jealous. I enjoyed chatting with the woman sometimes, in front of our houses. In spite of that, I decided to not try courting her. I could barely support myself at the time, and was not ready to accept her three children as part of the package.

In the Spencer First Ward, I began paying attention to a tall, slender woman who was the young single adult representative. She was also a teacher in Primary. When I decided to attend a special singles Sunday School class, she was the instructor.

I passed up an opportunity to dance with her at an LDS dance festival, to be held in the old Salt Palace. There would be two shows, and many different folk dances, each assigned to a different LDS stake.

At the first two dance rehearsals in the Magna Stake, I was paired with the young single adult representative, but there didn’t seem to be enough dance-festival-interest to get a complete group.

After my home ward meetings in Magna were finished, I liked to visit the Granger 28th Ward. Their dance group had enthusiastic dance teachers, and a full troupe of dancers. I couldn’t perform with both ward groups; I had to make a choice, and I chose the Granger 28th Ward.

As it turned out, my partner in the Granger 28th Ward had to miss some rehearsals, and warned that she would ultimately miss one of the performances at the Salt Palace. Since there were so many singles in the Granger 28th Ward who wanted to participate, my partner and I were chosen to share our dancing position with another couple. The end result was that I would not perform at one of the Salt Palace shows.

When I saw how my participation in the dance festival was developing, I began to get discouraged with it. I also began to take an interest in the young single adult representative in my own ward.

One Sunday I invited the young single adult representative to go out with me to see a movie on the upcoming weekend. We agreed to see a Star Trek movie. There was no holding hands or kissing, but we enjoyed the movie. I suggested we stop for ice cream on the way home; She declined, saying she just wanted to get home. She informed me that she had a boyfriend, although she went out with other men sometimes.

The Pontiac was running poorly that evening, as it often did, and for a time it scared me that we might get stranded, but we didn’t.

No matter how many repairs I paid for on that car, the engine wasn’t getting any better. It seemed to be warning me of its impending death.

I still had my trustworthy motorcycle to rely on, plus an extra car; the silver Toronado. The Toronado was a large car, with a beautiful interior, comfortable seats, and electric gadgets that didn’t exist when my Pontiac was built in 1969.

It was a gift from my cousin, Bob Wall, and it had a slight engine knock, which would get progressively worse.

When I first drove the Toronado, it overheated, due to a faulty mixing of antifreeze and transmission fluid in the rusted radiator. The fluids combined to form a putrid brown muck, which boiled through the transmission AND the engine. I thought it was simply bad fluid, and I tried to fix it by draining all fluids, then refilling with fresh fluids. After getting an oil change, a transmission fluid change, and an engine coolant change, the Toronado ran beautifully. It only lasted a few days, then it ran poorly until its demise.

I was in Salt Lake City, having lunch with a lady I had met at an LDS dance. I wanted to impress her with my best, so I drove the Toronado. While returning to her place of employment, the transmission started slipping. It made the Toronado lurch when moving from a dead stop. It was miraculous that the car made it all the way to Granger, just past the Valley Fair Mall, before it overheated. Interstate Transmissions repair shop happened to be close ahead, where I coaxed the Toronado into the parking lot.

The Interstate Transmissions shop manager took one look inside the engine coolant reservoir, and knew immediately that the radiator was rusting apart inside. Upon this discovery, I decided that the radiator arrangement was a stupid design, and requested a separate radiator for the transmission fluid. Since the existing radiator was rusting apart anyway, I would need two new radiators, which I expected would solve most of the problem.

That transmission shop manager was a wily character. He said I should have the transmission checked, and repaired. I was concerned about the cost, and asked what such a repair would cost. He avoided giving me any estimate, and said he wouldn’t know until he opened it up. I asked what the cost would be for an entirely new transmission; instead of answering my question, he said he was sure I would not need a completely new transmission. Believing that this man was working for my best interests, I left the car in his hands, and told him to call me when he had an estimate. I rode a bus back to Magna, unaware that I was about to make a major financial blunder.

When the manager gave me an estimate for the transmission repair, the cost was over 1300 dollars. I was aghast, because I had seen ads from other shops, willing to rebuild transmissions for only 500 dollars. ¿Why was his price so high?

Well, he said my transmission was “pretty-much ruined”. It would need a complete rebuild. I didn’t have 1300 dollars, but after my next paycheck, I would have it. The manager agreed to do the repairs, and keep the car until my next paycheck.

This manager also knew that my knocking engine was a problem, but didn’t bother to mention it until he had collected his 1300 dollars for the transmission repair.

When I arrived at Interstate Transmissions to take my Toronado, the expected work was completed, but in a manner somewhat against my wishes. They installed the new radiators, but routed the transmission fluid line through the main radiator, as in the original design. I also learned that the shop guaranteed their work for only thirty days. I was really disappointed with that, because other shops guaranteed their work for ninety days.

Then the manager asked me when I was going to get the engine fixed. ¿What did he mean? He didn’t elaborate, but told me to bring the car back after I got the engine fixed, and he would adjust the transmission for free. He handed me the car keys, and walked back inside to his office. I stood there next to my car, feeling puzzled and uneasy.

At Friday night dances, I’d meander through dance crowds, wearing a fine long scarf that my mother made. This was before I knew anything about the British actor Tom Baker, who was famous for wearing long scarves on his Dr. Who television series. I’d dance with any available lady; especially the wall-flowers. If I happened to find one lady repulsive, there would be a hundred more to choose from. And the next week, there would be another dance at a different LDS wardhouse.

The Magna Stake Presidency issued a call to me to teach the special singles Sunday School class, and I accepted.

I invited the young single adult representative to go out with me again, but she never did. She said she only wanted to be my friend, and she was having trouble with relationships. When I saw her at a dance where I was attending, I suddenly lost interest in all the other women in the building. We danced together several times. I’d try to walk away for a while, to give her a chance to meet other men, then meander back when she was standing alone, and ask her to dance again. It seemed to be a one-sided attraction.

My heart was troubled, and I turned to prayer. My prayers were simple, focused, and meditative. I knew God could answer me if he wanted to. Maybe I needed to make a suggestion, like the Brother Of Jared suggested the glowing stones idea in the Book Of Ether.

I suspect that my chances with her would have been much greater, had I attended the temple with our ward on designated temple days. But I did not attend the temple at all. There were more pressing concerns in my life.

One Friday evening, I suggested that God send me a dream about this woman, to help me know what to do. The Holy Spirit responded positively to that request, and I had a very vivid, symbolic dream pertaining to this woman. The details were unlike any dream I had before, but as happened with most of my dreams, I forgot about it as soon as the sunbeams came through my bedroom window.

Sunday morning, I was sitting in the rear of the chapel at the Magna Stake Building. The gospel doctrine teacher was giving a fairly boring lesson. I was tired, but wide awake. Suddenly, images from my symbolic dream came rushing back into the forefront of my mind. I started writing on a scrap paper, as many details as I could, as fast as I could, before the images could fade. The gospel doctrine teacher noticed that I was focused on something other than his lesson, and he called upon me to answer a question. I suppose he was trying to get my attention. My reply was, “I don’t know.”

In truth, I didn’t care about his lesson at that moment. I had an important dream to consider. After the closing prayer, the gospel doctrine teacher came to me and asked what I thought of his lesson. I gave a bland, but convincing reply.

Drove to the Granger 28th Ward, as I usually did following my meetings in Magna. That day, my mind was not focused on socializing. I was pondering the dream I had just written, trying to make sense of it. It was of no use to me unless I could properly interpret it. I found a classroom, where I could be alone for a time. There I prayed for the interpretation of my dream. God answered this prayer, giving me a clear understanding of my dream. The meaning of each object fit into a larger picture, much like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. This event was a great spiritual boost to me, even if my future with the young single adult representative was uncertain.

Each Sunday for several months, she appeared in church with her boyfriend, holding hands and sitting close to him. This boyfriend also attended our trip to an outdoor theater in Park City, and a picnic in Butterfield Canyon. I kept my distance, but glanced in their direction from time to time.

I stopped at her house one Sunday afternoon, to deliver something, when her mother invited me to stay for dinner. Her daughter was not there at the time, and I was nervous.

Per instructions from my dream, I didn’t want to cause any problems with the woman or her boyfriend. I told her mother my concern.

“Don’t worry about that,” her mother said. “You’re my guest.”

So I stayed.

Was doing yard work with a group of singles, at the home of a single mother in Granger. Her little girl, Tara, somehow got her feelings hurt. She came to me, with her arms reached out wide.

I asked if she needed a hug, and she nodded. I didn’t know Tara or her mother very well, but gave her a gentle hug anyway. I got to know Tara’s mother very well after that, as she took an interest in me at church and at dances.

In the summer of 1987, Shawn and I rode a bus, full of singles from Granger, to the Mormon Miracle Pageant in Manti. I carried Tara around on my shoulders, often in the absence of her mother. Even Shawn enjoyed having Tara around. The problem was, I liked Tara a little more than I liked her mother. It was not in some perverted fashion; rather, I had a talent for talking with little girls. This may have been because of my experience teaching Primary CTR classes in church.

While resting in the foyer at one of the singles dances, I happened upon an old friend who had been a missionary in New York and New Jersey. We became re-acquainted. He actually knew some of the same people I had met on my mission. He had married a girl from Long Island, but later divorced.

He was having a hard time paying rent and alimony at the same time, and needed a cheap place to stay. When he learned that I had a place of my own in Magna, he suggested we become flat-mates or roomates, and share expenses. We made a rent agreement. I moved my bed to the basement, and he moved his bed into the master bedroom where I had been. His rent money enabled me to do a few more repairs in the house. For a few months, I had a friend to talk to at night.

I sent flowers to the young single adult representative on a couple different occasions. The first time I marked the card “From Your Secret Admirer” but didn’t sign my name. Another time, she was having difficulty with her boyfriend. When she alluded to this after a Sunday School class, I felt sad for her, and sent flowers, with a note saying, “I can’t say I understand, but I care.”

She called me to thank me for the flowers.

Through the summer of 1987, I often sat in the basement of my house, moping. There I heard a cat, moaning outside my basement window. It bothered me, so I went outside and scared the cat away. It came back in a few days, making more noise. When I saw it huddled in the window well, I felt sorry for it, and put out a dish of milk for it. This simple act would make the cat my devoted friend.

After a few more days, I heard a furious scratching and scraping in the air ducts around my furnace. Suddenly, that cat was standing on the floor, greeting me with a *meow*.

I’m still not sure exactly how it got inside the house. I let it sleep on my bed for a few days, and at times, it would purr and massage me with its front paws. I decided to make the cat my formal pet, and bought some cat food and a litter box for it. I learned that the neighbors on the other side of my duplex had also been visited by this cat, and had fed it. I named the cat Mary.

My Pontiac Tempest developed a troubling electrical problem. Something was arcing under the dashboard. I removed the entire dashboard, and poked around trying to locate any burn marks. I also replaced the ignition coil, spark plug wires, and rocker point module, in an unsuccessful effort to remedy the problem. Due to a poor radio mounting design, and road vibrations, the right stereo sound channel in my Pontiac was cutting out. This greatly annoyed me.

I decided to stop wasting time on the Pontiac, and try to get the Toronado fixed up. Consulted with my uncle, Joe Hendriksen, about the cost of doing a complete engine rebuild on the Toronado. He said it would probably cost three thousand dollars. There was no way I could afford that, even if it was spread over six months. The item of most concern was the left door. It was rusted out under the bumper-decal strip, and became a reservoir of water after each rainstorm, with a sloshing sound as I opened the door. I pulled off the strip to inspect the problem more closely. It would not be wise to ignore this, if I wanted to keep using the car, so I approached a man in a body shop, about repairing the door.

The body shop man grilled me about why I took off the decal strip, and said I should have left it on. I didn’t speak profanity, but at times like this, the words did pass through my mind. However, my dislike for the hole in my door was stronger than my dislike for this man. I let him talk me into accepting a complete paint job, with new pin-stripes, decals, and welded door panel. It cost over nine hundred dollars.

In October of 1987, I took a week of vacation time. I don’t remember exactly what I did that week, but I remember walking into CCL the next Monday morning, and noticing empty offices. My supervisor greeted me in our office, unaware that I was about to lose my job. The president of the company immediately called my phone extension, and asked me to meet him in his office, where he broke the news.

The shock of losing my job was softened a bit by my last paycheck, which included substantial pay for my unused vacation time. I left CCL with over nine hundred dollars; it was enough to cover three more months of mortgage payments.

I was in good spirits for a few weeks, and felt confident that I’d find a good job before I ran out of money. I was wrong. The economy was in a slump. Moreover, the gasoline costs for running my Pontiac or Toronado out to Magna every day began to bite into the little grocery money I had set aside.

During the time I was unemployed, I neither expected, applied for, or received any government assistance.

My roommate also lost his job, and soon left to pursue a lady in Idaho; someone he took a fancy to. His former wife often called to nag him about alimony payments. She asked me where my roommate had gone, and asked me to have him call her. Since he had lost his job, he had no money to speak of, and could not meet his alimony payments. I was under a lot of financial stress myself, but glad I didn’t have to deal with alimony.

While visiting an LDS singles family home evening group, I met Linda Leavitt. Linda was a musician and composer from Arizona, visiting her cousins in Salt Lake. She gave each of us a copy of her phonograph album, I’ll Find You My Friend. We had a pleasant, but brief friendship.

While carrying groceries into my house, I left the door ajar. The cat, Mary, slipped out and was gone three days. When she came back, she was pregnant. Eventually I took Mary and her litter to the Humane Society.

My broken heart was causing emotional grief, but my unemployment was causing physical grief. I turned off the furnace and hot water heater in my house, because I didn’t feel I could afford the extra thirty dollars a month. The small amount of hot water I needed for shaving and washing my hair could be heated in the microwave oven.

The engine knock in the Toronado became alarming, and I did not bother to renew the registration.

When my roommate came back from a his trip to Idaho, to collect some of his clothes, he complained about the cold temperature, and insisted I turn on the furnace. I resented him for this, because he was in no better position than I was to pay for it. He also pestered me to tell him what I had done with Mary, the cat, and her litter of kittens.

At the next dance activity, I met a girl who was rather attractive, and who seemed pleased to dance with me. I was excited to hold her close during the final dance song that night, and invited her to attend a fireside with me the next evening. She hesitated, but agreed and gave me her address.

When I arrived at her home, there was a note at the door. She didn’t want to jeopardize her relationship with someone else, so she changed her mind about going with me.

I arrived at the church fireside, alone, a few minutes before it was time to start. I was suddenly asked to play the piano.

I played the piano, while it seemed that everybody in that building sang gladly. Inside, I wasn’t feeling very glad.

Employment opportunities were few. Few employers were even willing to take applications. When I went to apply for a job in food delivery, over sixty applicants had already been there. Several young men, recent high school graduates, were also there in the office, applying for the job.

I responded to some ads from modeling agencies. One such agency held an open audition for new faces. I appeared at the agency, along with several other applicants, to pose on a catwalk, as if we were in a fashion show. Some of the women talked about how their boobs looked.

The agency manager herself was a big-breasted young woman who dressed provocatively, and wore an excessive amount of makeup. She also had a nasty smoking habit. She was excited about a handsome, photogenic young man, then an older fellow who resembled Burt Reynolds. She was not excited about me.

There were no media clients or photographers present. The agency manager’s idea of an open audition was to collect a signup fee from everyone, and steer them to a professional photographer, for an additional cost of 75 dollars. The reason for the professional photographer, she said, was to produce a required 8×10 inch print of my face. There was no way I was going to pay anyone 75 dollars for a single photo, and there was no way this agency would get any work for me without such a photo. I paid the signup fee, and told the agency manager I’d get back to her.

I knew of an amateur photographer who lived on my street in Magna. The church had assigned me to visit him as a home teacher. He was a veteran of the Vietnam war, and had suffered many trials.

It was an emotional challenge for me to visit this man. In spite of his problems, he wanted to help me, but he didn’t feel like he had the proper photography equipment. He turned to one of his friends, who reluctantly agreed to do the photo shoot. I emphasized what I needed most was an 8×10 inch print of my face, and trusted him to do the job. I even gave him some cash. When I got the actual prints a few days later, there were several full-body poses, but no 8×10 inch close-up of my face, and no negatives to salvage.

I took a couple of the prints back to the modeling agency, where I was again reminded that they expected an 8×10 inch print of my face. I never heard from that agency again.

One of my neighbors listened to my story of the modeling agency, and asked how it felt to get abused without getting kissed.

One Saturday, while sitting in my car on Copper Cove Circle, I noticed a large number of birds gathering to the trees nearby. I was astounded at how dense the flock appeared, and how loud their chattering had become.

After a few minutes, I noticed it became very quiet, so I looked over to where the birds were flocked together. They were still there, but not for long. Like Mormons at a church meeting, reverently waiting for the closing prayer, the birds waited for the movement of one particular bird, who seemed to be their leader. When that bird took flight, the entire flock quickly arose into the air, following it. Within about ten seconds, the trees were bare, and I failed to see even one straggler bird. It seemed to be my turn to fly.

Sold my entire collection of Jefferson Airplane/Starship albums to Randy’s Record Shop, for about thirty-five dollars, then used the money to buy Christmas gifts for my sisters and mother.

I composed and recorded an instrumental piano tune: Passage Of A Loud Day. Went to the house of the young single adult representative, one last time, to deliver the song on a cassette tape.

After a rather dreary Christmas, one of my neighbors suggested I contact Bob Resch about a job. Bob was a handyman, advertising his availability in the classified ads. I helped him with repairs in concrete, roofing, painting, landscaping, and electrical wiring. My salary was five dollars per hour. This barely covered my bills, as long as there was a busy week of jobs to do. Some days I had no work, and therefore no earnings.

At one job, two of us lifted a horribly heavy desk out of a basement, and carried it to an adjacent property. It hurt my lower back, worse than I ever remember. We never got paid for that work. I stayed home, mostly in bed, with a heating pad, for three days. It was very painful to do simple tasks like sitting up in bed.

Adding insult to injury, Bob Resch talked about laying me off, because I was no good to him. Moreover, he could not afford any medical expenses on my behalf. When I did return to work the next week, my associates made fun of the way I walked. At another job, Charles Brown, who was a lawyer, disagreed with Bob’s pricing on the paint we used in his house. There were other complaints, but the paint price issue caused him to stop payment on the check his wife had given Bob for our work. We were still doing work in the Brown house, with Mr. Brown’s knowledge, when Bob Resch arrived and told us to stop and collect our tools. Bob confronted Mrs. Brown, and there was no agreement, so we left. We never got paid for our time there. I later called Mr. Brown to talk to him about it, and he cut me off.

I tried unsuccessfully to find a buyer for the Toronado. A certain used-car dealer on State Street agreed to have a look at the car. I drove to his car lot, and suggested a price of five hundred dollars. The dealer declined to purchase it, because of the engine knock. I was wearing my work overalls at the time. He said, “Put a new engine in it, and we’ll give you five hundred dollars for it. You look like a mechanically-inclined type of guy.”

I had wasted my time, and pushed the Toronado engine dangerously close to ruin. While heading back to Magna, the engine started smoking furiously. I tried to find a place to park the car, knowing that this could not go on much longer. There were few areas with wide shoulders, and the business parking lots I found were restricted to employees. The engine failed completely on a rural road, about 5200 west. I steered it off the pavement, out of the way of traffic.

Next, I tried to sell my Pontiac Tempest. I made up a *for sale* sign, and drove it to my mother’s house in Granger, where I thought it would be noticed by more people. On this trip, the car began to overheat, and the engine rapidly developed a loud thumping noise. It was not a rattle, or a ping. It was a thump, as if a huge foot were kicking it to death. The Pontiac was moving at a slow crawl as I drove it down Mooregate Avenue. I was fortunate to make it to my mother’s house. Not many people were interested in a 1969 Pontiac anyway. The only two who inquired about it lost interest when they learned about the engine thump and electrical problem. After another week, I took out the radio, and gave it to my roommate, for use in his car. Then I called an auto salvage yard and asked them to tow my Pontiac away. No salvage value.

My mother knew about the problems with both my cars. She was also concerned about me trying to drive the motorcycle on icy roads, so she offered her car, an old but reliable Chevrolet Impala. We made the transaction official with a bill-of-sale for $25. I used that Impala for the last few months I spent in Utah in 1988.

I continued looking for steady work, without success. At one point, I didn’t have twenty-five dollars to send as an insurance payment on the Impala. Buying gasoline depended on how much spare change I could gather up. I decided to sell my motorcycle, but I could not afford to pay for a newspaper ad and wait another week for offers. I needed insurance money immediately, so I took out my motorcycle one frosty morning, intent on selling it. A neighbor sympathized with me, and offered to buy my motorcycle. I would have given it to him on the spot, if he had produced the cash. We both knew he didn’t have any money; I had not forgotten about some items he had purchased from me in the past, but never actually paid me anything.

I loaded up all my spare Honda parts, a repair manual, the vehicle title, and drove the Honda to a small motorcycle parts shop where I had often made purchases before. I suggested a price of fifty dollars; the merchant only had forty dollars. I accepted the money, and rode a bus back to Magna.

It was mid-March of 1988. The bishop of my ward in Magna knew I was having financial trouble, and offered to make my house payments for me. I was emotionally exhausted; it was painful just to talk to the bishop about my situation.

I was unhappy with my work, my social life, and my cat. Was not sure what to do about it, until the bishop offered financial help. When I had prayed for guidance, over the previous three months, there seemed to be none. There were no spiritual impressions on where to look for a job.

At that moment, I decided that all my misfortunes were a sign from the Lord that he didn’t want me to stay in Utah. I declined the bishop’s offer, and added that I’d be leaving Utah. I just didn’t know how or when.

Through my sister (Sandra Marx) and her real estate broker, I arranged to list my house for sale. The sales price was based on my sales price, plus a commission for the real estate broker. That would get me out with nothing but the $1000 I used for a down payment. Most of my furnishings would stay with the house; didn’t have the means to manage them anymore, and not much confidence in actually selling any old furniture. Several other houses on the same street were listed for-sale.

Gave away my less-valuable personalty to people in the ward. Gave my Sunday shoes to a young man who had nothing but worn-out sneakers to wear to church. Gave some spare Bibles to children in my primary class. I tried to clean-out the house of anything that would make it look cluttered.

By the end of April, I was flat broke, and could not make the mortgage payments on my house in Magna. My mother graciously covered it until the house sold. In the end of my residency in Magna, most of my investments there, and my mother’s investments there, whether in time, materials, or money, were left for someone else’s enjoyment.

For a short time I was the male young single adult representative in my ward. There were about ten or fifteen names of single church members I had never seen, and the few active singles in the ward knew nothing about them. Most of my visits went like this: The person was no longer living at their given address, and the actual occupants at that address knew nothing about the person I was seeking. A few had married.

There appeared in the *wanted* ad section of the Deseret News, invitations to flight attendant orientations. If the recruiters liked an applicant, they would be invited to attend about ten days of flight attendant training school, and thereafter, work for an airline.

The first flight attendant orientation I attended was at a hotel in Salt Lake City. I dressed in a suit, practicing smiles and cheerfulness. This was not easy. There was a large crowd of young men and women … mostly women … who seemed more charming and sociable than I was. Many of them already had flight service experience. Somehow, after all the cuts were made, I was still there, with my sore face, eyeglasses, and no flight service experience.

Orion Air was under contract with Eastern Airlines to hire and manage a pool of flight attendants. The flight service training school was in Raleigh, North Carolina. After successful completion of the flight service training, we could expect to be assigned to any one of several large airports in the eastern states.

Arrived in Raleigh on the tenth of April, and stayed until the twenty-sixth. We, the Orion understudies, learned that Eastern Airlines flight attendants looked upon Orion people as scabs. The Eastern Airlines flight attendants were joining their mechanics in strikes against Eastern; they felt that the schedule and caliber of maintenance being done on the airplanes was unsafe, and they were risking their jobs to emphasize the point to their president, Frank Lorenzo. Frank’s thinking was that he could use Orion Air, a non-competitive freight carrier, to produce people to fill-in for his striking workers.

We stayed in the Radisson Hotel in Raleigh, where classes and tests were also held. I spent considerable time styling my hair with mousse every day; called it my Radisson Hairstyle. The instructors were smart, demanding, seasoned employees of Eastern Airlines. They made sure we really understood all aspects of flight service on a Boeing 727. One day we flew into Miami for a special training session. Most of us studied hard, memorized procedures, and demonstrated a competence that I am very proud of, to this day. We trusted and admired our instructors. We built strong friendships with each other. When we graduated, we felt we had truly earned our wings —the emblem of Orion Air — pinned to our blouses and lapels.

One of the best friends I ever had was Karen Hoffman, from Pennsylvania. We studied together, dined together, and roamed the carnivals or festivals together around the hotel in Raleigh. I truly loved her, but restrained my affection. She had already made a commitment to a boyfriend. Moreover, we didn’t know if we would ever actually work together, or see each other after our training.

I returned to Utah, and waited for news from Orion. After a week, there was bad news. The flight attendant deal was canceled, so Orion had no work for me. They did provide a couple of employment leads, which I thought was very decent.

For a couple weeks, I did more work for Bob Resch. Twice attended tryouts for PanAm (another airline), and paid a $25 application fee for each visit. They didn’t want me, even with my flight service training. Worked a few odd jobs through a temporary agency. Spent some time with lady friends. Then came an unexpected offer in the mail.

Trans International Air, a charter flight organization, had hired a small organization called Airmark to hire and manage a pool of flight attendants to be stationed in New York City. The man who managed Airmark had responded to my recently-mailed application. He offered me a position in Airmark’s flight service training program, to be held in a Howard Johnson Motel in New Jersey. Unfortunately, Airmark would not provide air travel or otherwise reimburse any travel expenses for actually getting to the hotel in New Jersey. I had no money, so I turned to my mother for help.

In June of 1988, my spirit was ready to leave, but still had some loose ends to tied up. A friend in Magna counseled me to “never let go of the Lord’s hand.”

On the first and second of June, worked a temporary job at a cookie factory. Prepared some invitations to the Libertarian State Convention.

On the third of June, enjoyed a trip to Nutty Putty Cave, near Lehi, with Shawn. Shawn brought a girl named Alinda, and I brought a girl named Mary. They knew I intended to leave Utah.

There were two others with us, for a total of six. We made our clothes filthy, crawling around that cave.

On the fourth of June, moved my remaining clothes and other portable items from Magna to my mother’s house in Granger.

On the fifth of June, taught my LDS Primary class in Magna for the last time. Helped Todd Kehl with his kitchen sink. Packed up some clothes. My mother gave me some money, and I left Utah on a flight to New York.

This could be THE END

🙂 Stuart James Beall 🙂