An excerpt:
I grew up in Portland Oregon, and when I was in the fourth grade, 9 years old (1957), my Dad sprung me for a week to go to, of all places, Moab, Utah. To this day, I do not know why. Over the years, especially once I started spending time there, he and I talked a lot about that trip. But I never asked why we went there. He worked for a local television station then, so it may have something to do with the post-war uranium craze. I don’t now, nor will I likely ever know.
My teacher, Mrs. Standforth, was the classic matriarchal elementary school teacher, and she wasn’t too keen on me missing a week of school “just to go to some Mormon outpost in the Utah desert.” But my Dad was persuasive, and with the agreement that I would write a report and give a talk to the class about what I learned, she reluctantly let me go.
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