Much like Lehi, my father’s decision to leave my childhood home in Meridian, Idaho and move north was prompted by a dream; the kind that lingers and leaves deep impressions on the mind. And like Sarai, mom followed without murmuring.
According to memory, my father has given proper attention to the promptings of the Lord and has been blessed for so doing. I have also experienced poignant dreams at times and have been compelled to heed their promptings. Shortly after this aforementioned dream, dad boarded a plane to scope out our prospective home—Prince George, British Columbia. When he returned, the home of my birth was listed and sold to the first buyer, a good family moving from Omaha, Nebraska. Within a week or so, we were on our way. Our entire belongings, consisting of 65 gallons (yes, I said gallons) of prunes and countless packages of Jell-O . . . indispensable for all respectable Mormons . . . were loaded into a mid-sized moving van. With dad at the helm, two kids seated next to him, and mom and six more children piled into the family station wagon behind, we departed what seemed like the promised land to venture into the wilderness. In that regard, it didn't fit Lehi’s experience precisely. Little did we realize that only three long and difficult years would pass before we would return to Meridian, Idaho to live next door to the home we were then departing.
Upon our arrival in Prince, George, dad secured a job with Beaver Lumber Company to meet the immediate bills and we began the search for a place to house a family of our size. For eight wired children and two tired parents, a place of any sort was acceptable so long as we could move in now! But nothing was immediately available. So—during the interim, we became city-dwellers and rented an apartment in town.
Outside of oriental communities, there are few cultures that design apartments sufficient to house a family of 10, and Prince George was not one of the few. Living quarters were cramped and micro-thin walls required us to hear the incessant arguments between our next-door neighbors. Characteristic of each neighborhood was a special underclass of white trash. As the only Mormon family in the school district, we were fodder for their pranks. Eventually, my parent felt is was necessary to have my two oldest siblings return to live with their grandparents and communities that provided good youth that they could date.
Similar to my parents, I've never really enjoyed city-center life; it feels like a trap, pulls attention from life's simple pleasures, and creates an anxiety within that can't be explained away. So, living in Prince George was difficult; most particularly on mother. One of the activities that brought us relief was riding our bikes. We had plenty of unexplored streets and wooded trails nearby. When finished riding each day, we had our own unique way of attaching the bikes to our apartment railing. Because we lacked the economic resources to purchase padlocks, we improvised with bailing wire. Round and round we twisted the wire till one could hardly recognize that there were bikes inside the convoluted mess. For any who thought of stealing our bikes, the myriads of bailing wire was a sufficient deterrent. But, for the brow-beaters who frequently "borrowed" our bikes, the wire only served as an invitation and nuisance. We thought that if they had to spend an hour untangling the wire, they would leave the bikes alone. We were wrong.
This neighborhood gang was composed of a dozen kids ages 9 through 17. They were obnoxious, but did little real harm. They were simply experts in the field of annoyance. Whenever they confiscated our bikes, they didn't keep them long. As we became familiar, their personalities became more aggressive. In particular, they began to pick on my brother, Byron, at school. One evening, I recall my father teaching Byron how to throw a fist. Mom was saying, "Bill, what are you doing teaching our children how to fight?" Notwithstanding, my father was determined to have Byron bring an end to the nuisance this group of kids had become.
One evening, the gang came around and took my brother's bike. Byron, about 10 years old at the time, went to the doorway of our small apartment and called dad out. When he came out on the porch, the gang didn't back down in the least. In response, my dad instructed Byron to choose the smallest member of the group and "Byron, you have my permission to beat the heck out of him. Do you hear me? I want you to fight as hard as you can." At that point, dad became the self-appointed referee of the pending fight and warned told the other members of the group to not interfere. Mom, of course, was going nuts and all of us were a little fearful.
Obedient to dad’s instructions, Byron proceeded into the crowd, selected the smallest one in the group (which just happened to be about his size) and proceeded to do just as dad had requested. Byron’s arms thrashed about like a wind-rower making short work of a wheat field. I don't think he remembered anything dad had previously taught him. He was too busy to think. Throughout the entire ordeal, Byron was crying . . . probably out of fear . . . but also because he was instinctively kind and had never really been faced with intentionally hurting another human being in this way.
Later that evening, dad began feeling awful for what had happened. So, in accordance with scriptural decree, dad bought a red, toy tractor for the boy that Byron had worked-over, and candy bars for the rest of the group--lest they esteemed him to be their enemy. After reproving them with sharpness, the abundance of love shown forth that night by my father to a gang of high school kids came in the form of candy bars and a toy tractor.