Everyone deserves to be remembered. Some people are unforgettable for their well-known good deeds, others for evil.
But for the humble, the quiet, or alone, unless they write their own story, their narratives are left to those who knew and loved them, be they family or friend. Most at risk of being forgotten are those who never marry and have no children to tell their stories.

I made it home to visit Mom in Monticello just in time for the snowstorm a couple of weeks ago.
It began snowing on Thursday evening and continued through the night. The legendary Monticello wind had not yet started, and before I retired to bed, I stepped out and saw snowflakes falling gently through the dark night, visible in the glow of the street lights.

As I grow older, I spend more time reveling in childhood memories, and as I do, I can’t help but think of all the great mothers on our street.
My earliest memory is lying on the kitchen counter on a summer morning. I was about two. The warm rays of sun came through the east window. My giant of a mother, Jewell Adams, had just wrapped me in a fresh diaper after rubbing Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Magic on my tush.

I grew up spending my winter weekends at “the ski lift,” later christened “The Blue Mountain Ski Area” by the Forest Service.
It was a 15-minute drive from my front door, and my dad forked over $1 for a kid’s lift pass every Saturday, hoping I would acquire some athletic skill he could be proud of.

One of the intangible historical artifacts that defines me is that I grew up in a small town. My memories of being a child in that enchanted place are priceless.
Small-town kids have unique opportunities to develop creativity and common sense, which are unavailable in big cities.

BREAKING NEWS—December 1908, San Juan County College Students Enjoy a Sub-Zero Night on the Riverbank in Moab.
Each year, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the news is filled with horror stories of travel-related woes endured by folks scurrying home to spend the holidays with family.

(Final part of the story, see sjrnews.com)
After the Norte trial concluded, Mark Gudmundsen didn’t know why some unexplained internal force compelled him to move to Bluff and work for his granduncle, Jacob Adams. Unknown to Mark, Jacob had a nearly identical experience forty-four years earlier. 

(Part 2 of a series. In Part 1, Mark Gudmundsen shot and killed Alexander Norte in 1935 near Parowan. See the Oct 2 SJR or sjrnews.com.)
A Coroner’s jury convened the next day to review the facts to determine if a murder trial of Gudmundsen was justified.

Tom Doherty, a 20-year veteran police officer said...
“Even if you’re justified, killing someone means you’ve taken something away that can never be given back, never replaced, never repaired, never ameliorated. It’s absolutely irreversible. That’s a heavy burden to carry...”

Most who know me are thinking, “What is this guy doing commenting on sports? He barely knows the difference between a football and a basketball, and he certainly wasn’t any good at either game!”
Yep, right on both counts, but I have a perspective on the last game of that 1969 season not shared by anyone else.

In her recently published book titled A Place Called Home: Quilting a Life of Joy on the Colorado Plateau, Janet Ross spoke to me of the need to develop and maintain a strong “sense of place”.
From the Preface of that book…
“…from a sense of place, we form a commitment to protect the place where we felt most at home. …some places just speak to you, fill your heart with joy…”

by Rob Adams
Contributing writer
Food is so much more than nourishment to body and soul. From choosing what to eat to the art forms applied during its preparation, it is the key pillar of any family’s culture no matter where on the planet they call home.