DeLysle Parkinson Monson

 

Teenage Lysle and young adult Lysle

Lysle

My brother “Lysle”

DeLysle Parkinson Monson

(1903-1930)

By

Weldon P. Monson

[Kris' Note:  FYI -- the name Lysle rhymes with mile or tile.]

I think it is entirely appropriate that I write this account dealing with the life of my brother, DeLysle.  Throughout his life I was closest to him as a brother and we therefore, shared many things in common.  We even had the same birthday, he having been born on September 22, 1903 in Preston, Idaho and I was born on the same day just two years later.  While he was two years older than I, we always seemed to be about the same size and this fact brought about some real rivalry over the years, although we were always almost inseparable as brothers.  We played together and with the same friends; we went off camping together, both in the west during the years that we lived there and in New York; we were both in athletics and each tried to excel the other.  As an older brother he did not give in easily, if he ever gave in at all.  He would not let his younger brother best him in anything, even in some of our backyard tussles which occurred much too frequently now that I look back over the years.  In Ogden, for example, I remember our being so evenly matched that when it came time for a good go to it, I would chase him around the block, but it always ended up with him chasing me back.  While these things did occur in our boyhood days there was always one thing an outsider might count upon – just let him attack either one of us and he would find himself in deep trouble.  We would first, under such circumstances, very gentlemanly leave it to the one first offended and if that were not enough, then we would consider, at that point, that we were both offended and our early notion of what a small NATO alliance came into play, and that was usually “it.”  I do not ever remember our coming off second best in such cases, no matter what the number or the circumstances.  I do not recall, exactly, just how our little rivalry started, or when, and whether it ever really ended.  I do know this, I had great respect for him, and think he might have had some respect for me, although neither of us ever went around bragging about it.

My earliest recollections were of Preston.  Here we went fishing, and swimming in the Bear River, usually with Kimber Larsen, and his cousin, Blaine.  Very often we went with the Packer boys, Lee and Lyman, or Ezra Foss, or the Cutler boys.  Abner Larsen, Blaine’s brother, was a little older, and more the age of Platte, Aunt Bertha’s eldest son.  We used to enjoy going to Franklin, and playing with Roland and Franklin, Uncle Ezra’s [Monson] boys.  But in Preston there was Platte’s fine pinto pony, the Foss ponies, the nice delivery rig of Uncle Nephi’s [Larsen] general store (now J. C. Penney’s second oldest), Cutler’s finehorses, those of the Packer’s and our own.  These were the day sof the dirt roads and the hitching posts along Preston’s Main Street.  These were the days of the early “flicker” or movie, the Odeon Opera House, the church meeting house with the many pigeons in the steeple, which we used to enter and take, the days when my father was county Commissioner (he built the bridge in Preston, which is still used) and had the town’s lumber yard, the Superior Lumber Company, which he built with his own hands, and a $20,000 loan from Uncle Joe Parkinson, and Lonnie Skidmore.  Dad also had the Maint Street store selling Studebaker wagons and fine harnesses.  How we enjoyed sitting up on a load of lumber as it rolled along those dirt roads, or sitting behind those fine horses, often being allowed to drive them.  We also loved to go out to Packer’s farm and pitch hay, riding back on the top pof the hay load, with Grant stopping at a country store and getting us some cheese and crackers, possibly a bottle of milk.  That was our pay.  We asked for no more.  The memories of those hay fields, and the rich aroma of new cut hay, and the privilege of riding out there and back behind those sturdy beautiful horses is worth more than any money.  In those days a nickel would get us in the “flicker”, if we couldn’t manage to get in otherwise.  I remember our concocting the idea that if we walked in the picture theater backwards they would think that we were coming out.  Indeed, as the ticket seller looked our way at times, we actually were coming out.  This little scheme, as I recall, worked surprisingly well.  We became known as the Katzenjammer Kids because of our pranks.  One prank I look back upon, makes me shudder just a little.  We found some dynamite one time, as part of the equipment of a construction company, and decided to plant it in a hollow part of a tree near the Odeon Opera House.  I do not know how many sticks there were, but when it went off it broke all the windows of the Opera House, and jolted, somewhat, those who were inside holding a dance.  I can tell this now that the Statute of Limitations has passed and as a means of easing my conscience.  May I also add that there was very little left of that tree.  Actually, it had to be taken out anyway.

I remember the Fourth of July, and the 24^th, Celebrations on that Town Square.  I particularly remember Radia Larsen win a prize or two for her wild western horseback riding.  I even remember seeing her horse rear back on its hind legs so that it was almost perpendicular, then came down, and with a snort and its mane and tail flying take off across the square at full speed, with Radia in full command.  I remember the family get-togethers at the Packers, with the freshly picked raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries, and rich thick cream, freshly made bread, delicious, roasts, their garden vegetables etc, and then a five or ten gallon freezer of home made ice cream, the most delicious I can ever remember.  In all of this beautiful setting, Lysle and I played and grew up in those early years of our lives, in the open sunshine, among wonderful friends and relatives, and with loving parents.  I remember some of our older cousins such as Radia, Roma (Larsen), Ora Packer, those very beautiful girls in Uncle George’s family, as being some of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen.  This certainly includes my own sister, Venna, who was one of this group.  We always thoroughly enjoyed the visits of the Lloyd family from St. Anthony, as they visited us in Preston, Ogden and later on, in Salt Lake.  We always felt close to them, and Lysle and I had wonderful tmes with Wesley and Donald who were just our respective ages.  Preston will always be something special to me, however, because of these early memories, not the least of which were those great moments spent in our own home, just adjoining that of my grandfather and grandmother Parkinson.

From Preston we went to England and I recall, vividly, many of the interesting things Lysle and I did while we were over there, and onour way home on the boat.  We lived in South Tottenham, next to the railroad station, on King’s Highway.  During my last visit to London, from December, 1965, to April, 1966, I was Visiting Professor at the London School of Economics and Political Science, and at the Bristol College of Science and Technology, for the Lent Team, and I made several visits to this old mission home and took pictures.  On one of these visits I went inside the building which had been converted into a ladies dress and coat factory.  I asked the manager if I might look around as I had once lived there.  He offered to show me through the place and was amazed that I seemed to know my way around.  There was the large meeting hall which had had the words inscribed across the back wall “Not the work of man, but the power and spirit of God,” now painted over.  There was the large wood paneled dining room, the kitchen, and the several bedrooms.  At one point I asked this manager if I might go up and see the attic and steeple, where Lysle and I used to often hide as we played hookey from school to keep from getting rapped over the knuckles with the teacher’s hickory stick, or possibly avoid getting into fights with English kids.  As the steeple had been blown off during World War II in German air raids and previous tenants had nailed up the door leading to the attic, I told him where it was and what it looked like up there, how the steps curved onto a little walk and led to another circular stair into the steeple.  He used a crow bar to pry open the door and we went up there.  It was just as I had described it.  I also showed him the place a deep pit used to be in the yard but now covered over.  In playing on a ladder with Lysle one day in the pit I fell and have a scar on my left elbow to show for it.  As we were leaving, he gave me a nice Beaver fur piece to be used on one of Erma’s or Diane’s coats and said, “I would like you to have this to remember Old Deseret by, and to remember an old Cockney friend.  It is a tribute to a marvelous memory, going back to a time 56 years ago when you were but five years of age.  I can barely remember two years ago.”  I remembered the little Elm Park school nearby in the same way with the one in charge there – where we played in the yard, the exact room where we had our little class, etc and the park I the back, which was once beautiful with trees, and now has been converted to several soccer fields.  It adjoins what once was the River Lee, a barge canal, where King George V in his coronation of 1910 came by barge and dedicated the park as King George V Park.  I asked some English boys who were out playing soccer at the time if they knew the name of the park that used to be there and they said, “I think you will find a plaque on the side of that old brick gate post as you came into the soccer field up there by Elm Park School.”  There it was, to be sure.  I knew the park so well because Lysle and I used to play hookey from school there.  We would plant little seeds and talk about the trees that would later grow. 

The barge canal held other memories, one particularly that I shall never forget.  In those days we dressed like English kids, with a little Lord Fauntleroy suit, collar and nice bow tie, or with a roll neck sweater.  On one side of the large canal there was a dirt path used by the horses to pull the barges along.  On the other, the far side from the park, was a path for the pedestrian.  This path was right at the edge of the canal, the sides of which were straight up and down, and the water deep enough to float a heavy, loaded barge.  One day Lysle, a boy from Preston and I were walking along the walk.  Lysle had a blue turtle neck sweater on, and I had a Lord Fauntleroy suit, with a large bow tie and white collar.  As we walked along a lady came down the path wheeling her large twin baby carriage.  It was the custom in England to give the lady, under such circumstances, a low, gentlemanly bow and then step aside and let her pass.  The boy from Preston bowed with me and we stepped back on the grass.  Lysle, nearest the canal, also bowed and stepped back, into the canal.  He hadn’t realized how close he was or was oblivious to the fact that the canal was even there.  He splashed around and could not swim.  WE could not swim either, and the lady just moved on.  As we frantically waved our arms, an English gentleman, tall, handsome and dressed in moring clothes, high hat, monocle, spats, talks and grey trousers strolled by.  As he saw us he came over and saw Lysle splashing around in the water.  All he said was, “I say there (‘they-ah’).”  Then he went over to the grass, gently setting his hat and cane down, taking off his jacket, then his monocle, then stripped off his grey gloves, spats, tie and shoes.  He then rolled up the bottom of his trousers, went over to the side of the canal, put his hand together, like in prayer, and dove in like a girl.  He took hold of Lysle, and climbed up the side of the canal with him, and very gently lalid him out on the grass, pumping the water out of him as we did so.  When he saw Lyself come to, he just as methodically wrung out the bottom of his trousers, brushed the water off his face, smoothed back his hair, then proceeded to put on his shoes, spats, tie, jacket and lastely, his hat, monocle, and grey gloves and cane.  He did not leave his name but, like a true English gentleman, went on with his stroll not allowing this fine act of heroism and gallantry to affect his little stroll in any way.  The last I remember was seeing his walking down the sidewalk with a little trail of water behind, but very serene.  We took Lysle home and put him in bed.  The blue dye from his sweater had come out and his face, hands, and body were all blue which, at first, caused us all to think he was just about gone.  Dad advertised all over England for this gentleman to at least thank him, and to give him a reward but he could not locate him.  I have thought that this gallantry was the finest I have ever seen.

As Lysle and I had the same birthday, Dad gave us each a pearl handled pocket knife for one of our birthdays in England.  As we walked hom from school proudly displaying our new knives, a larger English boy stopped us and said to me, “Let me see that.”  I handed it to him, and he flipped it into the air and I did not see it again.  He let me look up his sleeves, in his pockets, etc, but it was gone.  When I arrived home I was covered with dirt, my collar torn and my hair disheveled.  By this time everyone expected something like this as two little western kids tried to cope with those English boys.  We were always fighting it seemed.  When we played hookey from school Mother would always take Lysle and Dad took me – and it was always over his knee with the back of a hair brush.  I always felt this was a form of discrimination and that Lysle always got off easy.  As I look back, I am glad he did, for I was  usually the little rough neck, anyway.

Lysle and I went over to the market place one day and Lysle bought him a little hand organ.  It played simple little English tunes.  We went into business immediately – right outside the mission home on the front sidewalk.  As Lysle ground out the tunes I picked up the large English pennies dropped by the missionaries as they leaned out the windows of the five story building to listen.  As the threw out pennies, passersby stopped, listened, and threw in their pennies.  We would take the pennies and buy soda, candy and I remember a little cheap pocket watch that would not run.

We went to the street meetings with Dad and the missionaries.  It was our job to carry the song books, distribute tracts, and to make ourselves generally useful. The impression of these meetings was very pronounced as I have never forgotten the power behind these speakers.  They were great amid great opposition.  One could not help feel the spirit of religion when Dad spoke and it was contagious to the others.  I remember the story of the man who came to a street meeting, asked pointed questions of Dad, but refused to shake hands when Dad came over.  He was followed down the street on which had no alleys, but solid brick walls of a factory, and he suddenly disappeared.  It was the opinion of most that this could have been one of the Three Nephites.  I also remember James E. Talmage getting tarred and feathered; Rudger Clawson baring his chest to a mob and shouting “Shoot you cowards.”  Three missionaries had just been shot.  Also the incident of some missionaries having the ends of their fingers cut off as they attempted to raise the wooden roll window of a butcher shop where they had been trapped inside.  I remember the visits of President Joseph F. Smith, Pres. Nibley, James E. Talmage, George Albert Smith and others.  I remember Brother Dobson, the janitor, who later lost his life in World War I.

Lysle and I were always having trouble with a certain English Bobby, or policeman.  I do not recall what set this off but I do recall the last act, before we were to get into an English hansom cab (Victorian) we set fire to some June grass on his beat.  I remember Lysle and I looking over the back rail of the ship as we sailed away from England in 1912* with a feeling of great satisfaction in eing able to leave this bobby with a little problem and the comfortable feeling that we had made the boat that that we were off to America where he could not get us.  In those dark days we probably would have found ourselves in Old Bailey had he been able.

[Kris' Note: Maurice was born in Ogden in March of 1912, not immediately after the family returned.  They must have returned at an earlier time, perhaps.]

On the ship coming home Lysle and I used to box all day long to the amusement of the other passengers who threw us English pennies.  Neither of us would win, but we stood toe to toe and slugged it out all day long, just taking time out for meals.  The next morning we would rise early, have our breakfast, and start in again.  As I recall, this went on all the way across the Atlantic.  Occasionally, someone would spot a whale and we would take time to run over and take a look.

I had fond memories of England and when I had a chance to return to these places in South Tottenham, and to 295 Edge Lane, in Liverpool, I was more than happy to see them again in my lifetime.  I imagine Lysle enjoyed seeing those places again when he went there on a mission in 1928.  I tried to find his missionary addresses in Birmingham, Manchester, Stockport, and London but did not succeed, I suppose because I did not bring his address book along.  The mission home at 295 Edge Lane in Liverpool has been converted into a girl’s school, and the place next door has run down terribly.  The meeting place in the area of London where Dad might have been found preaching to overflow crowds, has now been abandoned.  The church has a beautiful new chapel in the better part of London, but the times that I went there I saw only a handful of people, about fifteen, and most of those were missionaries.  It is evident that Dad’s type of preaching and his kind of leadership as a mission president could be used again.  Manchester also had a large and beautiful ward but few people.  The same was true in New Zealand and Australia when I visited there.  I did not get the same feeling in any of those places that used to get when Dad was in the mission field.  Perhaps I have changed, I don’t know.  But then again, I think other things have changed too.  We are all a different people than people were then.

From London we may have come directly to Preston, but my next recollection was Ogden when Dad was head of the Eccles Lumber Company and we lived first on Madison Avenue, then at 2521 Van Buren Avenue, a house we later sold to Dr. Pugmire and, I believe the family still lives there.

Lysle and I were always close to the Jacobs family in Ogden, as were others in the family.  Mother was a good friend of Mrs. Jacobs, the mother.  Lysle and I played with Heber, now living in Provo.  Charles Lloyd, Aunt Lucy’s eldest son, married Oa Jacobs, David Wilson married Mary, etc.  David and Mary Wilson now live in Salt Lake.  Lysle also played with Hugh Taylor, and was enamored of his sister, Marion.  I went around a good deal with Edward Williams, and, of course, thought I was in love with his sister, Roma.  Ed had a pony and cart, and his father owned the large feel and grain store in Ogden.  They lived across the street from the Quincy grade school where we went through the early grades.  There were other playmates such as Doug and Paul White (now a barber in Ogden), a boy named Max Shupe (of the Cowley family) and occasionally we played with the Dutch Consul’s son, Bill Nooteboom, now in the Utah Penitentiary.

We used to go to the Ogden Fifth Ward, where, I believe, I was baptized by Thomas Wheelwright.  Lysle and I sued to cut through two vacant lots each Sunday morning on our way to church.  We wore “bulldog toe” shoes and liked to play “kick the can” as we went along.  As one of the lots we passed through was next to the home of Stewart Eccles, we would see him sitting on his front porch enjoying watching what we were doing.  One morning he drove a stake in the ground and put an empty can over it.  As we were going to church this one Sunday morning, I spotted the can and immediately took off for it.  Lysle also was on his way to beat me there if he could.  I got there first and aimed a healthy kick at the can.  I kicked the can, over the stake, and nearly broke my foot.  As I looked over to the Eccles place, Stewart Eccles was sitting on his front porch almost convulsed with laughter.  As I did I didn’t take these things lightly and decided to somehow even thing up with our friend, Stewart Eccles.  We knew, by some of our earlier investigations, that he had a nice patch of watermelons growing in his back yard, with several rows of corn growing around it to hide it from the general publich.  So Lysle and I proceeded to take some of his biggest and best watermelons one night.  Well, the long and short of the story, is that Stewart Eccles became very upset over this and as he knew that “Red” Nichols, later to have a fine band and orchestra, knew of his watermelons, caught “Red” Nichols one day and gave him a good beating.  We were delighted because Red Nichols had been a sort of bully around us, and we thought this was perfect justice, considering everything. [Kris' Note:  Red Nichols became famous and influential in jazz and big band music.  Danny Kaye portrayed him in a 1959 movie called “The Five Pennies.”]  I do not believe we ever told Stewart Eccles that we took his watermelons, and that he had administered the beating to Red Nichols for nothing.  At that early age we thought that “he who has the last laugh has the heartiest chuckle.”

In Ogden, we loved to go fishing and swimming in the Weber River, camping and outings in Ogden Canyon, hunting rabbits in the foothills.  We also liked working in summers at the Eccles Lumber Co., and after unloading a railroad car of lumber onto a very sturdy wagon, drawn by big, handsome horses, ride through the streets of Ogden seated on top of the lumber as the wagon rolled along.  There was always good, healthy fun in Ogden, and very fine family associations.  We were visited regularly by various church leaders, from the President, Joseph F. Smith, on down the line.  I remember once when J. Golden Kimball visited our home on Van Buren Ave.  We were having family prayers, a practice always followed in the family.  J. Golden Kimball was asked to pray when suddenly he stopped and started chuckling.  This, of course, started Lysle and I off, and soon, I suppose, everyone was giggling, right in the middle of the prayer.  Then J. Golden Kimball said, “Pardon me, dear Lord, but I have to laugh whenever I think of our next door neighbor accusing me of stealing eggs from his chicken-coop.”  I think everyone was glad when that prayer was over as Lysle and I just couldn’t stop laughing.

In those days we had a very fine car – an E.M.F. (Everitt – Metzger – Flanders) open touring limousine.  How proud we were of this car, one of the first produced by Studebaker, when it was brought to the house, parked in the driveway to our new garage in 1912.  Dad’s loyalties were always very solid and assure in all things, church, business, friends, family, etc etc even to the point of owning nothing but an E.M.F. simply because he had the Studebaker Wagon and Harness business on Main Street in Preston.

Lysle and I attended the Quincy School, just a few blocks away from our home.  It was a most wholesome school atmosphere and the children there were from some of the best families in Ogden.  We always had the things we wanted, but on a sensible scale.  Mostly, we earned our spending money at the lumber company, or mowing lawns for our neighbors.  The Monson family was well regarded in Ogden, because it was a fine family, and because of Dad’s leadership in both business and church circles.  He was a fine speaker and there were rarely any empty seats in the audience, whenever he spoke, which was very often.  He spoke without notes, but from inspiration and a thorough grounding in scripture and its application in religious expression.  I think he was the finest speaker, by far that I have ever heard in the church.  Since he passed away I continually look for someone to speak as he did, with the same inspiration, and with the same wonderful interpretation of scripture, but I know that I shall never see one like that again.  This must be the price one has to pay for having a great father.  In the family only Maurice and Lysle, and at one time, Walter, were able to even come close in matters of religious articulation.  The rest of us, by comparison, range from “poor” to “very bad.”  It is amazing, however, that any one in the family, by comparison with other families, both within and without the church, manage to hold their own.  The basic pattern thus was laid for usall, not one or two selected for religious development and the others for some other aspect of life in which they showed special talents.  The guidance that Walter, Lysle and Maurice received in the mission field, in letters from their father, gave them a special advantage over the rest of us, while the privilege that I enjoyed of attending so many of his church talks, his street meetings, and coming along at a special age where I could remember the wonderful things that I heard, gave me also something special as I grew up.  I saw the ideals sought and I saw them remain strong in times of both feast and famine, and I saw the best example in my mother’s and father’s lives, of what a true, and a living, faith should be.  It was not seasonable, not did it change with the winds; it was the kind that grew in adversity.  They had no enemies, but a host of friends who loved them dearly.  There was never any question that they would endure to the end – whatever that may mean.  Their main endurance, and something I have always marveled over, was the very admirable manner they “endured” certain people within the church and their actions.  Maybe they were “men of God” but I cannot visualize “men of God” as ambitious, petty and self-seeking.  Rather, I look upon my father as a man of God, a deep conviction which will carry with me until the end of time.

We lived in Ogden only for a short time, really.  From the time we returned from England in 1912 until Dad was called to preside over the Eastern sTates Mission during the latter part of 1913 was just a little under two years.  Ben E. Rich had suddenly passed away in the mission field and President Smith came to Dad.  At the same time one of the apostles, Heber J. Grant, had apparently set his mind on living in New York and had even enrolled his wife at Columbia University, but President Smith called upon my father for this important work, at this important time, and in this important mission of the Church.  Why Heber J. Grant should feel any jealousy or animosity toward Dad for having accepted this calling has always been a rather strange phenomenon to me, and particularly, a very strange expression of religion.  But he did and later events bore this out most clearly.  His immediate release, upon the death of President Smith, (along with the other eight mission presidents, to be sure) was the beginning of a series of discouraging events for my father, mother, and family – all of which we have managed, somehow, to endure.  And all of this in the face of a promise that he was to remain in the mission field for the rest of his life!  It is my personal belief that these actions were not in the best interests of the Church, as it was deprived of the inspiring leadership of a great man, whose every declaration was for the advancement of the Church, and God’s work, here on the earth.  This can never be of advantage, however it is received.  Despite the trials it meant for my father and mother they just continued to grow, as those who overcome adversity must.  The schism, however, between the President of the Church and my father was unfortunate and should not have happened.  The note found in my father’s closet after his death best expresses his feeling on the subject.  It reads –

_______________________

(Maurice has a copy of this).

_______________________

[Kris' Note: I do not know of a note, unless perhaps it is our Grandfather’s final address to his posterity, which was shared in Sally’s book about Aunt Venna.]

As I now look back, being older, wiser and sadder, I find that my father also had certain faults, which were contributive to the general situation.  In dealing with business men in the Church, he expected that they, too might place God above else with business interests of secondary importance.  Particularly in the case of Eccles, he should have dealt with them on their terms, as, obviously, they would not come to his.  By dealing with politicians, like Reed Smoot, who was a leader in the church, he failed to realize the he was dealing with a very crafty politician, and would not be dealt with always in church terms.  He should have learned to render unto God that which is God’s and unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, making a clear and neat demarcation at all times.  When dealing with the church authorities he should have learned that they only did what they were told, and would not sacrifice their positions in the church for love of someone who was not on the new team.  They had a boss, Heber J. Grant, and had to carry out the new system fully – or else.  Which of these would sacrifice all to take up with Dad?  Not one.  There was sympathy, of course, from James E. Talmage, George Albert Smith, David O. McKay, Hugh B. Brown, but no real outward help.  Beyond these four, I would not expect charity would keep family given received any, would to their credit. [Kris' Note: This last sentence may be wrong. It is from a tiny margin note that was very difficult to read.]

As we moved to New York, we had a large family – seven children and my parents.  Keyne was to be added in 1916, at the mission home at 33 West 126^th Street, in New York, and Richard in 1918 in the mission home at 273 Gates Avenue, in Brooklyn.  They were both born at home, as was the custom in those days.

Lysle and I went to Public School #68, at 127 West 127^th Street, now in Harlem.  The Church held its meetings in a hall above the Apollo Theater in 125^th Street, just off Lenox Avenue.  When we enrolled in this school we were both put back two grades when they saw we came from a school they considered out in “that back country.”  I was put in the 2^nd grade (from the 4^th in Ogden) and Lysle put in the 4^th (from the 6^th).  We did not like this al all, and, later, when we returned to Salt Lake to live was in the 7^th grade in Brooklyn, and went into the 9^th.  Lysle was in the 9^th in Brooklyn, and went into the 9^th.  Lysle was in the 9^th in Brooklyn and started in the first year of High School in Salt Lake, putting us both in the same grade, althought he was two years older than I.  In later years this was to present a problem which I will write about later.

The brownstone in which we lived at 33 West 126^th Street was in a very good neighborhood.  Across the street lived George M. Cohan, the composer.  Next door lived the Marconi’s, a prominent banking family.  Down the street the Knox’s, who owned the large Knox Department Store on 125^th Street.  Life in the mission home was one of 100% missionary work, and in a very spiritual atmosphere.

Our playground was the streets of New York.  We played baseball (using a tennis ball) in the street in front of our house, using one man-hole cover for home base, the next man-hole cover for second base and a gree or fire hydrants on either side for first and third bases.  We constantly dodged in and out of busy beer trucks, all pulled by horses, ice wagons, fruit peddlers and what have you.  We made “push-mobiles” out of a wooden box and roller skates and planned long trips, say to Van Cortland Park, or to camping sites now obliterated by apartment houses, factories, and even newly emerged towns.  We fought as kids with the colored boys in the neighboring Harlem, but just for the fun of it.  Now they fight for real, and a white person takes his life in his hands just to go near the area, night or day.  We saw our playmates on the block die like flies in the 1916 Spanish influenza and polio outbreaks.  We would play with them one day and, on the next, there would be a black crepe hanging on the front door.  We kept on playing, just the same, and there was not one in the family who became ill all during the entire siege.  Dad would tell us to go out and play saying the “if you were going to catch the disease you would catch it if you remained in the house.” And, then again as always, placed his faith in God and prayer.  Lysle and I used to go to the Apollo Theater and see such pictures as “The Million Dollar Mystery”, Pearl White’s thrillers, William S. Hart etc always taking our lunch and seeing the picture over three or four times.

One day we decided to dig a place in the back  yard where we might build an underground headquarters for our l ittle boys’ club on the block we had organized.  As we dug in the middle of the yard at 33 West 126^th Street we found some carved objects about the size of a half dollar.  We thought it fun to sail these over the roof tops on 127^th Street.  We mist have sailed at least twenty of these over these roofs seeing who could throw them the farthest.  Lysle then took one of them and put in his jacket saying that he was going to keep it for a “nest egg.”  As the rust wore off he suddenly saw little figures indicating that it was a coin of some kind.  As he rubbed away the further rust the figure “1637” became plain and, finally, in evolved to be one of the first coins used by the early Dutch in New York under Peter Stuyvesant, then the first Governor.  As it was found on Church property Dad suggested that we turn it over to the Deseret Museum in Salt Lake City where it was prominently shown in a glassed in case in the main room, to the right, as you enter the front door of the museum, at the entrance to Temple Square and the Tabernacle.  It remained here for several years that I personally know of, because Lysle and I used to stop in and look at it as we went through high school.  It had an inscription stating that it was donated by DeLysle P. Monson on such and such a date and where it was found.  Jst a few years ago I wrote the museum and received a letter indicating that they do not have the coin and have no record of it in the museum.  The coins are invaluable.  Again Dad’s trust may have been just a little misplaced.  As “treasure trove” it belonged to the finders, to Lysle and I.  In the museum, however, it was not “treasure trove” for anyone there, but placed in the trust, safety, and keeping of the Church.

Lysle and I were very enterprising youngsters.  When it rained we took umbrellas to the subway stop on 125^th and Lenox Avenues and took people to their homes, keeping them from getting wet, and always getting a good “tip” for our services.  We sold newspapers, the early Globe and World, and the New York Telegram in the restaurants, street corners, and the corner saloons.  We waited in line at the old metropolitan Opera Company and sold our place in line to elderly persons who did not care to stand that long for their tickets, and usually received one dollar for our place.  We worked at odd jobs, such as Nohema Candy Co. on Lenox Ave. near 126^th St. where we helped make ice cream and we were paid in ice cream – all we could eat.  I think Nohema finally called us in and told us frantically they were losing money and the arrangement would have to stop.  We worked in the Collingwood Market, delivering meat on afternoons and all day Saturdays (until about 10 PM) for $2.50 a week.  We knew every good fishing place and swimming hole on the Hudson River and often dove for coins off tugboats in the East River.  We got to know New York well in all of its aspects.  Not only that, but we understood New York, not as a visitor, but as one practically brought up on its streets.  Now, as I teach in New York University I look back on this period and value it highly.  It taught me many very valuable lessons, not the least of which has been to place the values in things where they belong.

We moved to Brooklyn in 1916.  I remember carrying lamps, pieces of furniture, a clock and other pieces of household furniture from 126^th Street to Frank and Gates Avenue in Brooklyn by way of the subway, just to save moving costs.  Subway rides then were a nickel.  My father built the mission home at 273 Gates Avenue, and the chapel next door, patterned after a plan given him by Rey L. Pratt, the president of the Mexican Mission, who was his close friend.  They were both fine buildings and served fro many years as the focal point for Easter States Mission activities.  The locations were ideal in 1916,when it was built, situated right in the center of some of the best known churches in the nation.  It was also a fine residential area, and was near good schools.  It is now in the heart of the Bedford-Stuyvesant area, which rivals only Harlem, in crime.  Too many people seem to think that possibly the location was poorly chosen as they view the present day situation, but not having been around at the time, they are hardly in a position to know much about it.  Actually, the present meeting place on 81^st Street, is in one of the worst rat infested, crime ridden areas of the city, so this would seem to be a better subject of conversation than our home in Brooklyn.  At any rate, the Church will soon start building a 37 story skyscraper on 57^th Street which should resolve the location question once and for all.  The Church would be on the top floor, presumably, just as close to heaven as possible, much like the Ziggurats of old Babylon.  [Later margin note added by Weldon:  (Note: Written when 57^th St. was the chosen location.  That was sold at a profit and now the skyscraper and church are going up opposite Lincoln Center.”)]

Lysle and I attended Public School #3 in Brooklyn and played on its baseball team.  We often played in old Ebbets Field, where the Brooklyn Dodgers also played, for the Borough Championship.  Life around the mission home was of a very rich spiritual quality and one could not help but feel it the moment of entering the home.  The church was always filled to overflowing and the services very inspiring.  When Dad spoke the meetings overflowed to the sidewalk, just as I recalled they did in the other places, such as London and New York.  Lysle and I were only deacons and we received $1.00 each week for cleaning the chapel from top to bottom.  As I view the accounts received now by the caretakers of, say, our present ward, the Westchester Ward, I think Lysle and I were short changed.  Perhaps we should have joined some kind of a deacon’s union.  However, I am sure that neither of us would ever strike because we just thought this was our job, and, like Dad, did not consider money as one of our motivations in life, anyway.  This probably was one of our mistakes, as it was Dad’s “mistake” to run the entire mission on $10,000 a year, inviting all of the returning service men, and those going abroad, to dinner at our home during World War I.  We should have known that President Grant would make this a point of criticism in later years.  Now the caretaker of the Westchester Ward receives that much.

On the basis of President Smith’s calling that Dad was to spend the rest of his life in the mission field Dad had all of his furniture shipped to the mission home. (It was still there when the home was sold about three or four years ago – at auction.)  Dad also paid for all of Venna’s piano lessons ($12 per half hour) from one of Pederewski’s favorite pupils, pronounced “Stay-oh-ski” (spelling?),and Walter’s studies at the Pratt Institute.  Dad also paid out of his own pocket Lafe’s expenses to Utah State University in Logan, where he spent his first year in college.  He used his own car, a Studebaker touring car, and paid for his own gas and oil.

There were many humorous incidents in Brooklyn such as the time Lysle and I took fifty cents each of our allowance for cleaning the church and went to Coney Island for the day.  We decided not to pay some of this hard earned money for a bath house, and as we had our swim suits, undressed under a pier and hid our clothes with our money in the pockets.  After our swim we returned and found someone had stolen our clothes and money leaving us no other alternative but to walk, barefooted, in the hot summer sun, over the hot sidewalks from Coney Island to Franklin and Gates in Brooklyn.  [Kris' Note: According to Google Maps, this is a 3-hour, 8.4 mile walk.]  We learned a valuable lesson and it never happened again.

Then, the Touts used to come visit with us and we with them in their fine country home in Amityville.  Hazel used to chase me at times and give me a kiss.  She did this because I was so bashful and would blush all over, which seemed to amuse her.  So one day, I decided that I, too, would be a movie star.  I took my sister, Blanche, by the hand and took her to the corner confectionery store (with a wooden Indian in front of it) bought a little bag of peppermints out of my allowance, and then the two of us walked down Fulton Street, under the elevated, to the office of one of the movie companies.  On the way, I said to Blanche that I should have a movie name, like Hazel Dawn did.  Then I saw a large sign on a building with the name Gamale on it.  I said, “That’s it; Weldon Gamale; that will be my movie name.”  When we arrived at the office I asked to see the manager in a very business like way.  After all, weren’t we there to do him a favor by offering our services to the movies?  I suppose everyone was so amazed by seeing us there and asking to get in movies that they carried it with us on through.  The manager came out, we did not get to go in his office, and very nicely said something to the effect that he was glad to see us and to note our interest in giving our talents to the movies.  He said now what is your name?  I said that I had decided that Weldon Gamale would be my movie name, and my sister, Blanche, would be Blanche Gamale.  He obviously had a hard time restraining himself, but with a very kindly smile, took things down on a piec of note paper, shook our hands, and said we would hear from him.  Then we trudged our way home, happy that we had offerend our services as we did.  We never heard from them, and somehow I think we did not give it another thought.  We got busy on other things as children will.  I was about 11 years of age and the time and Blanche was about 9.

In Public School #3 I was the color bearer for our school assemblies.  I would go before the students holding the American flag and give the pledge of allegiance “I pledge allegiance to my flag etc etc” and at the end say “School salute.”  At times I would lead the students down the stairs, out the front door, then right to Bedford Avenue where we would stand at attention as our soldiers in World War I marched by, on their way to the Brooklyn Armory and then off to Europe.  One day while walking down Bedford Ave. a recruiting officer stopped me and asked if I were registered for the draft.  I said I was just that minute comingin.  I joined the Army and ran home to pick up a few of  my things.  Dad saw me and said, “Where are you going?”  I said, “I have just joined the Army – So long!”  Well, he stopped me and took me up to the recruiting station and told them that I was only 14.  I did look like about 18.

We learned a lot about New York in our growing years.  The old Hippodrome, the Strand, the old Majestic Theater in Brooklyn, the first years of the Metropolitan Opera House, the old Bowery and Chinatown, Carnegie Hall, etc, etc were all very familiar to Lysle and to me as we were the deacons who used to show people coming from the west around the city, even taking them to the top of the Woolworth Building, then the world’s tallest building (48 stories), and it was all just part of the job for which we were allowed $1.00 per week.  As noted above, we should have joined the deacon’s union and struck for more pay.  But Dad had taught us the things of the spirit and at that time, money was really of no great consequence in our young lives.  Later on would be soon enough for us to learn the real facts of life anyway.  But it was all a very worthwhile and enriching experience in both New York and Brooklyn and treasures were built up that would stay with us for our lifetimes.  They were treasures of the spirit.  What else could it be, living with such wonderful parents in this ideal missionary setting?  This was their life and work, and they were so richly endowed and so marvelously equipped for just this life.  It was their happiness in life, and their great joy.  When it was ended in 1919, as has been already explained, the children were all delighted to be going west again where they could once again live and play with others of their own faith.  Dad and Mother respected the wishes of their children and started making preparations to return to the west.  Dad had been sought to enter politics and run for the governorship of Utah, but he deferred all decisions until he had concluded his work as President of the Eastern States Mission and that was after he had thoroughly grounded his successor President McCane in the work he was about to undertake, and concluded the last remaining details before returning home.  A man of his background and character, and great spiritual development, could not now suddenly change and become someone else.  He was still the same man everyone loved so dearly and he would go on, pressing always on even though deep sorrows were to come his way.

When we arrived in Salt lake City in 1919, Lysle was ready for high school and legitimately so.  He had finished the eight grade in Brooklyn.  I had finished the 6^th grade and only entitled to enter the 7^th grade in Salt Lake.  But, thinking of the two grades I had lost when we went to New York, I decided to make them up right here.  I therefore, entered East High illegitimately and, thanks to Lysle, I managed to get away with it.  We registered at the same time and when they asked me for my diploma from Public School #3 I said that the Principal, Mr. Jones, would send it on.  He never did, of course; first because he was never asked to and second, because there wasn’t any to send in the first place.  As I look back, with some misgivings now, I think of myself as one of the original “con” men, a real trick artist.  Lysle, however, thought nothing of it and was just glad to have me in his classes.  He helped me with math problems and other subjects so that I would no fall behind.  He was just that kind of a brother to me, when he knew I had a problem.  Which, of course, I did.

We were living in a five room bungalow located at 1464 East 17^th South in Salt Lake.  It was a place that Dad’s brother, Otto, the dentist, had somehow gotten for him while Dad was away.  I am not familiar with the details of this situation, but the house was obviously much too small for our family.  Most of us slept in the basement, some in the parlor, and some on the back porch.  When Walt and Duchess came out, presumably to live, they were given on of the two bedrooms and Dad and Mother had the other.  Walt had trouble finding anything to do in Salt lake and I recall Dad saying the he had a good friend at the street car company who might use his influence to get Walt a job as a street car conductor, from which he might, some day, even work himself up to a job as a motorman making five or six dollars a day.  Things were just that bad for us!  Venna took a job at the Deseret Book Store where she worked six days a week and 10 hours a day for $7.00 a week.  Dad had lost his place with the Eccles Lumber Co., because of the help he gave the church and the Utah Idaho Sugar Co., a rival of Eccles Amalgamated Sugar Co.  One of those who obtained this aid for the church was Reed Smoot, a U.S. Senator and an apostle.  Dad sought help from Sen. Smoot to obtain a position.  Senator Smoot gave him a job in New Orleans running down rum-runners.  In this job he carried a gun, and I recall the feelings that I had as he recounted lying on his stomach in some trench in a field and shooting at the tires of the rum runners.  He needed money for his family and would even take this kind of a job..  He had no choice.  But the pay was so small he could not maintain his family expenses in Salt Lake and those he had in New Orleans too.  But what a come down from the ideal he had experienced in the mission field for many years, where his heart was, to running down rum runners in New Orleans.  But Dad had more to endure.  He was in later years to be offered a job paying $5.00 a week in the Church Tithing Office working on tithing records.  In all cases, my father paid his full 10% tithing because that was his principle, and he was a man of principle. 

I remember when we were living on 17^th South two men came to the house and threatened my father on some unpaid bill.  I was sitting on the porch and heard everything that was said.  I was then about 14 years of age, possibly 15.  I was about to jump off that porch and go after these two men but, as I started, they started to leave.  In my mind I could have torn them both apart. 

Then mother’s sister, Nettie, saying to her “you must think you are smart having lived in New York,” etc. It was not this attempted sophisticated nonsense that Nettie liked to put on, but that she could say such things to my mother, her older sister, at this particular time and under our then very poor circumstances.  Mother was not one for affectation at any time, and certainly not during these trying times.  She was deeply hurt, but just smiled and evenly went on to talk about something else.  She had so much real religion in her that she would not think of answering her sister in kind, nor do anything to alienate the sisterly relationship.  Secretly, I have always felt that Nettie’s husband, Bert, wanted to be what Dad was, and that is the reason he visited us so often at home, to bask in Dad’s limelight, and perhaps to find something of substance, to talk about – to get a few good religious ideas for his own church expression.  He was a good fellow, no question about that, but I would not introduce him to a friend for fear that he would try to sell him something – too often some questionable oil stock.  Yes I remember on 17^th South on the 4^th of July, when everyone seemed to be going somewhere, that I cried around the house so much wanting to go to Saltair for the day, that Dad and Mother decided to take us, even though they had no money and used their last few dollars for the purpose.  As I now look back, a lump comes to my throat and my eyes begin to well. 

We moved to 152 South 11^th East Street after about a year on 17^th South.  Through Governor Simon Bamberger, I believe it was, Dad got a job as one of the Industrial Commissioners for the State of Utah.  He received $333.33 a month and things went along a little better for us.  This was on old house, but larger.  We were in the 11^th Ward.  Then we moved to 3123 South 7^th East Street – the Van Dam house – where we had a nice home with five acres of good land.  We had two cows, a Jersey and a Guernsey, and even a horse I paid $35 for at one time.  It was here that Lysle and I went to Grantie High School.  He liked mechanics and math.  I liked the general studies and athletics.  Lysle’s thinking was that of an engineer, mine perhaps law, but going to college later was something far beyond our fondest dreams.  Lysle also liked athletics but neither of us had played in sports, other than baseball, coming as we did from New York where we had only the corner lots and the streets as our playground.  Lysle and I were in the same grade.  In my first year at Granite I made four letters – in football, basketball, track and baseball.  Lysle, for some reason, did not take these things seriously.  Actually, one of Dad’s friends, a returned missionary, at Utah Power and Light offered Lysle a job at $65.00 a month and he took it.  How I now admire him for this!  He used to like to have a good suit to wear, because he was a very handsome, well built young man, and looked good in clothes.  This gave him his own money and he used to always give mother a certain amount of what he earned.  He was so proud and happy to just be able to do this.  But two years of this got him two years behind me in school.  He decided to go to West High for a year, but something, somehow kekpt urging him back to Granite.  I made 12 letters in three years, the largest number any athlete had made in this period of timein the school’s history, I was told.  Lysle then came to Granite and was one of a very few players in the history of the entire state (to that time) to ever make the All-State team three years in a row.  That means that he was the best in his position, which was center, of all the high schools in the state for three years running.  On his same team was John Smith of East High, who made all-America tackle for the University of Pennsylvania and Bill Dern, the Governor’s son, who also became known at Penn in athletics.  There were others, of course, who distinguished themselves later in college but whose names now I cannot quite recall.  I had played center and was quite well known in high school athletics in Utah, I think the best I could do was an honorable mention on the all-state team, probably my senior year in 1922-1923.  And I later played on Lou Little’s great teams at Georgetown, particularly the 1926 team which Lou Little states in the best he ever coached, even including the 1934 team at Columbia which won the Rose Bowl from Stanford 7-0.  But I believe that Lysle’s best sport was baseball, the game he did learn on the sand lots of new York, and in Brooklyn’s Public School #3.  In this sport I regard Lysle’s achievements as far greater than anything he did in football.  He was a pitcher and a good one.  His pitching duel with Gordon “Dusty” Rhodes of West High were classic.  Lysle was always easy and outgoing and would always freely discuss the oncoming games with me.  With Gordy Rhodes it was different.  Here was a situation Lysle knew called for his best, and he was quiet and meditative before the games.  I do not ever recall his mentioning Rhodes name before these games, certainly never in a manner which would indicate any stuffy ideas of grandeur or accompanied by any form of boasting.  He was too gentle by nature, too composed, and I may say, too humble for this sort of thing.  He sensed and appreciated greatness in someone else and here he had the greatest respect for Gordy Rhodes.  They had pitched against each other before and each time it ended up in the same fashion, a pitcher’s duel – classic in every sense of the word.  The scores were always 1-0, 2-1, 3-2 (in what was then considered a of wild scoring) with Lysle winning one and Gordy coming back to win the next.  I do not believe that I can recall any other rivalry quite like this either in high school or college sports.  These two filled the stadia wherever they went.  But Lysle’s attitude will always be what I will remember best under such circumstances.  I remember his control, his speed, his fine curves, his command on the mound, but this other quality was simply superb.  It was the quality one might find in real champions.  He was pitching against on the best and he knew it, not because of the name Gordy Rhodes, which was to be later illumined as a regular starting pitcher with the New York Yankees and on the same team with “Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, etc etc probably the greatest of the baseball immortals, but because he knew he was a great pitcher, and had proved it, game after game, on the mound.  I doubt if Lysle had all that respect for mere names anyway; they came and they went in his life and he couldn’t be bothered with all of this adulation one particularly notices today.  As I have already said, it was his attitude and frame of mind that will always be indelibly stamped upon my mind as he was confronted with greatness and rose to meet it.  I really believe that Gordy Rhodes had a few things on his mind before each game that he pitched against Lysle, thought which might quiet him down a little, too.  Lysle died on Tuesday, August 19, 1930 after an operation we shall discuss later.  I like the feature editorial of Lou Richardson in his column “Sport Talk” which appeared on Thursday evening, August 21, 1930.  I think this article is so appropriate for Lysle that I will give it verbatim.

“Sport Lovers Mourn!

Death has called another of Salt lake’s great athletes of yesteryear.  Scores of sport lovers are mourning the death of Lysle Monson, one of the most outstanding athletes ever developed at Granite High School.  Monson never participated in college competition, a church mission taking him away, but he was considered the greatest collegiate prospect ever turned out by Rex Sutherland of the ‘Farmer School.’

Monson was one of the few scholastic football players ever to gain a berth on two all-state elevens.  Lysle was named on the mythical 1924 and 1925 teams ranking with such outstanding scholastic stars as Pete Dow, Vic Taufer, Reid Jewkes and other (?) of his prep school days.

Monson was also wonderfully well known in the local baseball world.  He was a rival in prep school to Gordy Rhodes, whi is now making such a sensational record with the Hollywood Stars.  Monson also threw slants and benders on local sandlots with such snappy teams as the Upstairs Clothes Shop in its heyday.

Since his return last spring from his mission to Great Britain, Monson has not participated in athletics but was just beginning to regain old interests when death called him.

He died as a result of an operation, made necessary by perforation of the intestines.

The local sport world mourns.  A great athlete has pass on!”

Lysle did not go on to college for various good reasons to numerous to be fully related here.  I was attending Georgetown University in Washington DC on an athletic scholarship and I spoke with Lou Little, our coach and Director of Athletics about Lysle receiving a scholarship also.  Lou offered Lysle the scholarship but Lysle had simple tastes.  He wanted only engineering, and the specialize in electrical engineering.  Georgetown did not have an engineering school and Lysle said he did not feel inclined toward any other.  Lou was about to obtain a scholarship for Lysle at Carnegie Tech in Pittsburgh where they did have such a school, and one of the best, when Lysle decided to return home.

His aspirations were not toward a professional career but a more simple way of living; a home, a family, a single purpose in life.  Every action has it reason, and sometimes the reason which motivates one are very deep in their inception.  Lysle had seen a way of life he did not want, both in Salt Lake and now on his visit to Washington.  He used to talk about many things and I know that great personal gain in life was not one of his ideals.  Letters he wrote to his father while in the mission field also evidence that his thoughts, and his heart, were somewhere else.  I think that Lysle saw something in Dad’s life that he wanted to emulate and overcome, possibly, past influences which took us to Brown’s Pool Hall with the other athletes in both high school and college.  On relection, I believe that many of us somewhere might do as Lysle did and that is to examine our motivations more carefully as we take certains actions, or fail to do so.  Some of us might well be ashamed of these motivations, others might be gratified.  In today’s world Lysle would have been templted by flattering offers from the big leagues which may have tested him more seriously.  Heaven only knows what the New York Mets would offer him as a pitcher in its system and Lysle might have been hard put to make a choice.  Perhaps with his love of baseball, his outstanding abilities as a pitcher, and a bonus of say $100,000 he would not find it possible to refuse.  If he did accept, there is one thing certain he would do.  He would turn it all over to his mother and father and thereby gain that inner satisfaction he always sought of doing something worthwhile for someone else – but particularly for his beloved parents.  He did not seek self gain for any other reason.  He did not seek self gain, period.  I think what was going through Lysle’s mind at this time is best expressed in Philippians 3:7-15 which I think should be state fully to convey the thought intended.

7.  But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.

8.  Yea, doubters, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them from dung, that I may win Christ.

9.  And he found in Him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith:

10.  That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings , being made conformable unto his death:

11.  If by any means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead.

12.  not as though I had already attaeined, either were already perfect; but I follow after, if that I may apprehend that for which also I am apprehended of Christ Jesus. 

13.  Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended:  but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.

14.  I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

15.  Let us therefore, as many as be perfect be thus minded; and if in any thing ye be otherwise minded, God shall reveal even this unto you.

Lysle had listened, as had I, to the beautiful thoughts Dad has so often expressed on the resurrection.  There comes a time when all fo these things gather together in one’s mind and the result is a form of compelling action.  I doubt if either Lysle or I would have accepted a call to the mission field at any earlier point in reference to time, first because of the hardships the family had been called upon to bear after years spent in the mission field and, second, because we were both interested in other things.  Lysle’s thoughts began to turn in this direction and he must have expressed these thoughts to his father.  As a result Lysle was called on a mission to Great Britain.  He used to write me such fine letters, all of which I have saved, like I have saved all letters I have ever received from my mother and father, and there was a truly great change being worked upon him.  He was happy in what he was doing, and apparently what he was doing was being done well.  In a letter Dad wrote to him while in the mission field (which I sent to Maurice a couple of years ago for safekeeping) he (Dad) spoke of a fine tribute paid Lysle by his mission president, John A. Widtsoe.  He said, in effect, that unless something happened to Lysle in the meantime he predicted great things for him (presumably in church work).  The letter reads: 

(Blanche:  please obtain this letter from Maurice and reproduce it, in full, at this point.  It is very prophetic and meaningful.)

Near the close of his mission Lysle received word of the illness of his mother and was granted permission to leave his mission early to enable him to be with her before the end came.  Lysle was always proud of the fact that he made the trip by ship and train (no plane travel then) in just nine days.  When he returned he was so spiritually minded, and I so worldly wise, that I think he must have found it extremely difficult to close the gap.  He would not come down, and he shouldn’t.  I could only come up to him, and that was the difficulty.  I had not yet taken my “trip to Damascus” as he did, but which we all must do somewhere in our lives.

Lysle started selling real estate for LeGrande Richards and Dad helped him get a Ford for the purpose.  I dropped out of school this year to be near mother and I was selling real estate for Orin Woodbury.  Both were just getting started and sales were hard to come by.  I coached a junior high school team in Bountiful to augment my income, and Lysle later changed over to the Utah Radio Co. where he “could get so much per and not so much perhaps.”  Besides he wanted to settle down and get married.  He would take me by the arm on Sunday morning and take me to Priesthood meeting and Sunday School.  I probably would not have gone otherwise.  I went to church when the spirit moved me, or when Dad spoke.  That meant that I went to church on Sunday evenings, in the different wards of Salt Lake where Dad was always engaged, months ahead, as the evening speaker.  I even liked to go Ward Teaching with him as I always came out feeling inspired and spiritually refreshed by his message. 

On one Sunday morning just after Mother’s death, Lysle took me by the arm and was about to take me to early priesthood meeting at the Sugar House Ward.  As we were about to pass through the dining room of our house on 11^th East, we noticed Dad sitting by the dining room table, in the head place where he always sat near the front door.  He was obviously quite broken in spirit and with some difficult, said, “Boys, sit down.  I would like to tell you something.” Or “I have something to tell you.” 

Note:  Dad and Lysle could not have conferred druing the night, or even the day before, as I was with Lysle all during this time.  We came directly from our rooms this Sunday morning, without stopping for breakfast so they could not have discussed this beforehand and, of course, they wouldn’t. 

We sat down, Lysle at the other end of the table, and I sat in the center, between the two, alongside the inside wall.  Dad hesitated for a few moments and then said with deep emotion, “You mother appeared to me last night.  “Lysle said, “What did she say, Dad?”  Dad said, “She said for me to keep active in the church, to keep up my tithing.”  Dad had thought of becoming less active because of his failing health and his financial problems at the time, occasioned by medical bills, funeral expenses of mother’s a month before, and other things out of his $200 a month at Morrison-Merrill Lumber Co.  As Dad said this Lysle then said, “Dad, Mother appeared to me too, last night.”  Dad said, “Lysle, what did she say to you?”  Lysle said, “She did not say anything, but just motioned (giving the sign) to me to come on.”  I thought that Lysle had become so spiritually minded and always interpreted things in this spiritual light.  I really became quite angry at Lysle and would not even speak to him all the way to church, during church, and all the way home.  I could understand Dad’s emotional stress with Mother gone not quite a month, and the two having been so close all through their lives.  But Lysle, this was something else, I thought.

At Mother’s funeral, Lysle and I, rode with Junius Jackson to the cemetery and back home.  On the way home, either Lysle or I, said, “Well, I wonder who will be next.”  Lysle said, “I will be the next one to go.”  June Jackson looked over at him (we all sat in the front seat) and said, “Lysle, I would not talk like that,” and gave him that very friendly, understanding smile that was so characteristic of June Jackson.  Lysle very confidently said, “It will be my trn to go next.”  After our meeting in the dining room with Dad, and after church and Sunday dinner, which Dad prepared, we three, Dad, Lysle and I and Lysle’s finacee, went to the cemetery.  Dad looked over the plot and said, “now I want to be buried here, and pointed out the spot, and there will be room for others in the family to be buried along here, and again pointing it out.”  Lysle then stretched out on the ground along the bottom side of the plot, as I recall, and said, “I was to be buried here.”  His fiancée, who was there with us, said, “Lysle, please do not talk like that.  What would I do?”  She was visibly upset and cried a little.  Lysle very calmly said, “Everything will be all right.  We will still be sealed in the temple after I am gone.”  We went home and within a month Lysle was gone.  [Kris' Note: Leona died in March 1930 and Lysle died in August 1930, so the meeting in the dining room would have been in July.  In another letter, he said it was on July 6, 1930.]  I had taken Dad and Keyne to Yellowstone Park to see if a few days there might help Dad’s spirits, which were low.  We had stopped at Uncle Fred’s in Rexburg for a visit overnight and there Dad repeated this whole occurrence.  Uncle Fred’s daughter, Mrs. Scott, who had had polio and was there on crutches, listened very intently.  Later, in 1957, when I was in the hospital in Rexburg for a hernia operation, she repeated it to me without the slightest variation, and I gave her the ensuing chapters she had not theretofore known.

We went fishing in Yellowstone and returned to find Lysle living on sauerkraut juice [Kris' Note: At the time, this was a common home remedy for tummy trouble].  He had actually contracted typhoid fever on a little trip he had taken with his fiancée and Keyne, before our trip to Yellowstone.  Dr. George Allen, the company doctor for Utah Radio Co., and a dabbler in real estate, diagnosed the trouble Lysle was having as “summer flu” and prescribed certain foods etc.  Lysle, however, would only take the liquid sauerkraut juice as anything else nauseated him.  When Dad saw the condition he called Dr. Allen who told him that Lysle should eat more solid foods, like potatoes, etc.  Dad asked him to come over and see Lysle, who was in excruciating pain.  Dr. Allen came and still persisted in both his diagnosis and his prescription.  After he left Dad called Dr. Ogelby who came over immediately.  A lady across the street, who was a registered nurse, had come over and immediately upon entering Lysle’s room said, “He has typhoid fever, you can smell it in the air as he breathes.”  [Kris' Note: I read that typhoid fever emits a characteristic odor of similar to baking bread]  Whereupon, Dr. Ogelby felt the taut condition of Lysle’s stomach and asked, “How long as this condition been going on?”  Dad estimated 22 hours.  Dr. Ogelby said that Lysle had lost 5% of his chance to live for every hour he had it and that an immediate operation was necessary, and by the best surgeon in the city.  Dad called upon his close friend Dr. Richards and Lysle was taken into the operating room.  Dad and I were both allowed to watch the operation.  At one point Dr. Richards turned to one of his assistants, Dr. Louis “Dutch” Tauffer (I believe it was), and asked “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”  When the reply was firmly in the negative, Dr. Richards added “Well take a good look at it, for you will probably never see it again.  These things should never occur in the present day.” 

What had happened was that the solid foods had made a perforation in Lysle’s intestines and peritonitis set in and had gone through his entire system and they did not have the antibiotics then to control or drive it off.  I remember Dad and I visiting Lysle in the hospital after the operation and how much it appeared that he would make it.  Dad and Lysle asked me to administer to him, something I had not done before in my life, as far as I can remember.  I remember somehow carelessly or thoughtlessly placing my hand on his stomach as I wanted to ask Lysle something before the administration.  He looked at me and said, removing my hand with his very confident, yet very spiritual, smile, “No, not there, Weldon.”  I have never seen him quite so understanding, so gracious, and so much a real brother.  I administered to him, after Dad had anointed him with oil.  I remember distinctly my last words.  They were, “Thy will be done, oh Lord.”  As I think back on this a lump forms in my throast for little did I realize before in my entire lifetime, what a truly fine brother I had, and what a really great man he was.  In his simplicity he grew to something I would want to be, but can only be by starting in where he did and under the same motivating forces.

As I was visiting Lysle alone after Dad went home for some sleep, Lysle called me over to his bed.  I remember his holding out his hand and when I grasped it he said, “Weldon, sit down.  I have something I have wanted to tell you.”  I sat down, and just as Lysle was about to speak, Dr. Richards came in the room.  (He had almost lost is arm in the operation somehow by the peritonitis getting into a prick that was made during the operation accidentally in the hand, arm, or wrist, whatever it was.)  He asked if I might leave the room for a little bit as he had some post surgical attention to give Lysle.  He said, “I won’t be too long but I think Lysle may be sleep when you come back in, and I would urge that you do not disturb him.”  I asked “How is he doing, Doctor?”  He said, “Lysle has tremendous strength and he may food us all.”  I waited for while and then went home as Lysle was asleep.  That is the last time I saw Lysle alive, as the next day I had a meeting scheduled with Ott Romney of the B.Y.U. concerning a job there with him, as Assistant Coach for the following year and found out that Lysle had passed on when I called in on my way home.  I shall always regret that I did not hear what Lysle wanted so much to tell me.  Perhaps it was meant that things should not be so plain for me, and that I should find out in my own way, as Lysle did.  The one thing that was made plain, however, cannot ever be removed.  The truthfulness of that dining room conversation with Dad and Lysle, Lysle’s statement at the grave and in the car with June Jackson, cannot ever be assailed with me.  Lysle and Dad could not have gotten together on a story, and it is unthinkable, if they could, that they would ever get together on a story of this kind.  It could not happen with Dad as a party, for with Lysle.  It all pieces together according to the only testimony Dad ever put down in writing, and can be found in the Deseret Book Store in “Faith Promoting Incidents” which I would urge be copied at the conclusion of this account of my brother, Lysle, ad his life as I remember it.  He finished his life as I would want to finish mine.  I would like to be what he was at the end.  He was great, and he was my brother Lysle.

May I express my deepest feelings for the lady who has been placing flowers on Lysle’s grave every memorial Day since he died.  What Lysle said as he laid himself out on the grass that Sunday is given special meaning now as one looks back ad eternal life also makes adjustments which may not have been altogether possible here.  I would just like to know, at this point, if this fine lady is the same girl who came with us to the cemetery that day.  While the bible states that “there shall be no marriage, nor a giving of marriage in heaven” I do think that both Lysle and this lady, if indeed she is the one, will give its true interpretation at this point.  As God is a just God, and a loving God, I am sure all these things will be made whole.

[Kris' Note:  One day in the Portland Temple in August 2003 I had a distinct impression, "Uncle Lysle wants to be known by his family."  I went home and gathered together some records my father had kept.  I made copies and sent them to all of my living Monson cousins.  I had the addresses thanks to a Cousin List that Diane Monson had created with her typewriter.  I hoped that it would help us all get to know Lysle better.  As it turned out, without planning it, I mailed the copies to actually arrive to most of the cousin's homes on Uncle Lysle's 100th birthday! Little did we know at the time that Weldon had done such a wonderful job of writing Lysle's history.  My husband assured me for years that we would find precious records of Weldon's someday.  

Weldon and Lysle were such close friends and brothers.  There are several smiling, happy photos of Weldon taken before Lysle's death.  But none that I've found throughout his life shows a smile after Lysle's death.  He has a little upturn to his mouth in photos that should indicate happiness, like his engagement photo with Erma.  I don't know if it's fair to assume by this that his heart became too heavy due to the loss of his dear brother, but I wonder.

He obviously devoted a great deal of time to writing about his brother Lysle.]