What's your favorite gun? Browning Arms Museum has many

Slim Jolley (that's her legal name, not her description, but she is both) is one of the hardest working volunteers at Union Station.

Just about every day you can find her in the archive, down in the car museum, running the gift shop (when there's one to run) or out back in the restoration shop wielding red-hot rivets.

But mostly she's up in the Browning Arms museum. She has shot rifles, including Brownings, since she was a little girl and really loves it up there.

She gets lots of fun questions, such as where can someone buy ammunition (there's a national shortage caused by hoarding), how often do tracer bullets appear in belts of ammo (every 5th, usually), and which is more dependable, the Browning 1911 or a German Luger (the Browning, by far, of course.)

I found her there last week, sitting in the cool semi-dark surrounded by dozens of mounted rifles, shotguns and pistols, the legacy of John Browning and his family. There are some real gems -- prototypes made by John, the first commercially successful rifle they ever made -- but which ones stir up Slim's juices the most?

Two. "I'll show you," she said, and led me first to what looks like a roughly-made pistol, not fancy or anything, but she said it's the pistol of her dreams.

What she was showing me was the .22 caliber semi-automatic hammerless pistol, invented in 1914, patented in 1918, and later called the Colt Woodsman. Slim said this handmade prototype was built by John Browning's brother Edmund.

"They showed us that at a gun meeting a while ago and you could move the slide back and forth with one finger, smooth as butter," she said. "I've been shooting for 70 years and I've never had a gun that snuggled into my hand like that one."

Sadly, she said, "they won't let me take it home to play with it."

Her other favorite hangs on the wall just to the left of the pistol. A display case shows three .22 caliber rifles, one of the Brownings' more successful products after the design was sold to Winchester, but these are special just to look at.

The top one is her favorite, a specially finished target rifle, with checkered stock, a deeply curved  "schutzen" butt stock, sharp sights and rigby flats.

Volunteer Slim Jolley with her favorite .22 rifle (top)

The museum isn't sure who the original owner was, but Slim said it could have been Gus Becker, the Ogden beer baron. Gus competed in the 1924 Olympic Games on the US shooting team and would have used such a rifle. Matthew Browning probably finished it, she said, he was the family member who did that sort of work.

Whatever, it's just pretty to look at, she said.

The rifle she misses most in her life is the one she used as a young girl, a model 1890 .22 caliber rifle that sold for $16 in 1894. Slim inherited it from her grandmother. "She used to shoot Apaches with it," she said.

Sadly, it disappeared somehow, she's not sure, when she went away to school, so all she can do is look at the ones in the display case in the museum.

Pioneer Days Shows The Power of Faith

The Pioneer Days Parade is Ogden's chance to strut its stuff, and Union Station is a regular.

Why not? The Browning Kimball Car Museum has some of the coolest wheels on the planet, vintage "Made in the USA" cars that gleam and glint and sometimes even run pretty well. They are 70-plus years old, after all. Yes, when new, they were rated at 95 mph, but after a while the expectations have come down a bit.

How far down? If we all made it back to Union Station we'd consider the day a success.

So there we were, cruising the 'Vard in a way cool '31 Lincoln, waving to the crowd, kicking it in the sun. This car is amazing. Originally owned by the Dole Pineapple family in Hawaii, it was brought to the continental US, bought by the Browning family and, when they took their car collection elsewhere, donated to Ogden for permanent display at Union Station.

Theresa Grace, one of the volunteers, said this Lincoln has never broken down during a parade. She and Adrienne Zubiller got in the rumble seat. I got in with Steve Davies, who was driving. He turned the key, pulled out the ignition, pushed the starter button and away we went.

It was way cool. Take this thing cruising on a Saturday night, you are guaranteed to attract all the attention available. Things were going great. Steve was telling parade viewers to "EAT MORE PINEAPPLE!" and "VISIT UNION STATION!" I was smiling and practicing my parade wave (who invented that stunted wimpy little thing?) and good times were had by all.

Unfortunately, somewhere around 27th Street, the engine quit.

Steve Davies

Steve tried the starter, pulled the choke, pondered the wheel.  Auto guru Steve Sherwood came over, fussed and pushed, finally got it going but 10 seconds later it quit again.

The other cars drove off, there we sat. One of them did have a tow strap, but it was way far ahead.

So, what? Call AAA?

Then a massive troop of LDS Missionaries came by. "Need a push?" several said. Steve was worried about damaging the car, but Theresa said it's made out of tougher stuff than cars today are, so four of them got behind.

Morgan Cowboy royalty lead the way

And that's how we finished the parade. Those guys pushed us all the way to 20th Street where the parade thinned and a parking lot at a title loan place beckoned.

Phone calls were made, Steve came back in a more modern vehicle, checked, decided we'd run out of gasoline and went off for more.  The cars were supposed to have fuel, he said, but these things only got 6 to 8 mpg when they were new, cruising now in lower gears really eats up the fuel, and this one had just run out a bit too soon.

Two and a half gallons later, off we went home.

"I will say this," Theresa said. "We were the most well-seen car in the parade."

Pushed by missionaries? It was a great display of the power of faith.

Volunteers ready to ride

Vintage controls

Me, enjoying the ride

Glinting chrome

Theresa offers a treat?

The Power of Faith

Our Saviors

The Lincoln's Greyhound hood ornament

Syrian Wars and West Davis Highways -- Deja Vu All Over Again

It would be nice if I felt that we're making progress in this world, but every day brings reminders that the powers that be have other ideas.

Yeah, sure, there's discussion going on, but so what? The trend is obvious, the machinery is in motion, the costs are irrelevant because someone -- not you and me -- stands to make a butt-load of money.

Examples:

-- Today's Standard has a story (click) on the West Davis Highway, a $587 million strip of asphalt designed, so far as I can tell, to make development of what's left of Davis County, and western Weber County, a lot easier.  This massive subsidy to developers is to be paid for by you and me.

UDOT, so today's story goes, is extending the comment period, and I suppose it is possible that UDOT could look at all those comments, say "wow, this was a mistake," and cancel the whole thing. It would then send a polite note to all the contractors and developers planning to make zillions off the thing after investing millions in "campaign donations" to members of the Legislature to support it, but we all know how likely that is.

So, comment away -- it won't matter, the highway will be built. That $587 million would buy a lot of mass transit, but that won't happen because "mass transit requires government subsidy and that would be subsidy," while a free highway gifted to developers is "forward-looking infrastructure," or some such.

If you want to comment go to UDOT.utah.gov/westdavis.  It will do little good, but might make you feel better.

-- Nationally, the effort to get the US involved in Syria's civil war is gearing up. Today the Pentagon released a letter (click) listing the costs of intervention, anywhere from $500 million a year to station troops there, to $1 billion a month to fly airplanes over and enforce a no-fly zone.

Needless to say, supporters of intervention such as Sen. John McCain, R-AZ, are very upset at this. John and a few others, such as Sen. Lindsay Graham, have been very noisily advocating intervention. Whether they do this just because Obama hasn't yet, and it's a way to attack Obama, or they seriously think the US can accomplish something, one thing stands clear: They have no way to pay for it.

Those deficit hawks never say how they'll pay for their war adventures, which means they'll just rack up the costs -- billions more to Halliburton and other war companies -- and then scream about deficits and cut welfare, Social Security, Medicare and everything else.

If you ponder the comments on that story you will see more than 50 as of this writing, including one from me, not a one supporting us getting involved in war in Syria. Polls show the large majority of Americans agree, yet this is still a debate in Washington, the sort of intellectual debate disconnected from reality that lets politicians rack up points, and please lobbyists, but leaves us stuck with the bills and the funerals.

I'd suggest writing to your congressperson, but ours are all staunch Republicans who like these wars. Rep. Rob Bishop thinks the government should double military spending and cut out everything else. A letter might boost business for the Postal Service, but that's about it.

More highways and war -- what makes America great?

Walking the Dog is Great Cover

I borrowed my son's dog to take a walk this morning. Our own dog, Gimli, just died of cancer, and until we can find another pooch, Mary will be substituting.

She won't mind. She's a border collie, full of unburned calories, and loves it, but I have a more practical reason.

I'd rather not get arrested, thank you.

Here's the deal: When you go for a walk with a dog, you are obviously walking a dog, which is a very accepted thing to do.

People look at you and smile. "Cute dog," they say. "We saw you out with your dog the other day," they say.

"So nice to see you out with your dog," is common.

But try being a 64-year-old man taking a walk without a dog in the United States of 2013. This is the era of predators, child kidnapping, molestation and general mayhem, and there you are, just walking?

You aren't walking the dog. You aren't dressed for exercise so you aren't doing that, obviously. You're not hiking, because you aren't on a mountain trail.

You're just some old guy wandering around. Maybe following the same route every day, in fact.  Suspicious!

"We saw you without your dog and wondered," one neighbor actually said. "Where's Charlie going?"

So I'll be borrowing Mary. My son said to help myself. She's a good dog.

This has the added advantage of helping whittle down the pile of grocery bags at home. Ever since Gimli got sick and quit taking walks, they've tended to pile up despite our best efforts at using cloth bags for shopping.

And, I might add, the neighborhood is also, after today, missing half a dozen littered beer cans and water bottles.

You're welcome.

Gorgeous sunset, one hell of a ride

It was, yes, a lovely sunset.

Fremont Island

Utah is famous for lovely sunsets, and when Larry suggested an evening sail to watch one from the Great Salt Lake we said sure, yes.

So Monday afternoon, about 6:30, we set out from the Antelope Island harbor. We sailed north and west in Larry's lovingly tended 22-foot Catalina, dodging high spots in the lake's bottom that can snag the Shrimp Noodle's keel (4-foot deep water is getting rare as the drought continues) and watching as a spectacular display of clouds and sky and water surrounded us.

Photographers know the best clouds are those on the edge of a storm, and that should have been a warning, but the storms seemed to be farther south, it's a big lake, we didn't worry too much. The boat sailed past Fremont and Egg islands, we talked, we enjoyed the clouds' changing colors, from blues an grays to pinks, reds, crimsons and purples streaked with sun and shadow.

Amazing stuff.

A display of light and shadow and cloud

Off to the south, way down near Magna, lightning flashed. "We probably ought to turn back," Larry said, but the storms seemed pretty far south and heading to the east, not toward us, we lingered a few more, then turned.

Ten minutes out of the harbor, getting close to 9:45 p.m., it was getting dark, Larry stood to take down the sails and motor in. As he stood the wind started blowing, the sails came down, Larry struggled to get the main sail tied to the boom, cranked the motor, and the wind started to howl.

Suddenly the boat would not turn into the wind to head toward the harbor. Larry turned it the other way, with waves hitting it sideways, rolling steeply as the boat turned, but he still couldn't get it to head into the harbor. Lightning flashed, wind howled, waves flew, salt spray bit into our eyes.

Carla and Larry

Larry said maybe we'd have to stay and wait it out. Seemed reasonable. Summer storms in Utah rarely last more than half an hour, I thought, but this one howled and blew and the clock ticked by. The weather radio said there was a "slight chance" of thunderstorms, but that was in Salt Lake, not on Great Salt Lake.

Larry sent Carla and I down into the cabin. There was nothing we could do, Larry's boat is a one-man operation, and no sense in all of us getting soaked. I sat inside watching Larry control the boat's motor with one hand, a rope with another as he tried to keep the boom from swaying around, a leg over the tiller to keep it in line.

"It looks like it's getting better" he said every now and then, but then the boat would be lifted and swung sideways, I'd see the background behind him shift 45 degrees or more, and he'd say "Maybe not."

Rising bile, sea sickness. You don't need the gory details.

"There's lots of room out here, we can stay here for a long time," Larry said as the storm drove the boat west and north, still motoring so he had steerage.

The approaching storm

The boat, 22 feet long, bobbed like a cork, or so it felt inside. I didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture of Larry out there, but wish I had -- sitting amid the wind and spray, lightning all around, soaked, struggling with the boat against the water. I knew he'd been in seas like this before, knew the boat couldn't sink, but it was still a time to ponder just how badly things could end.

As the boat headed north he had trouble keeping it far enough west of Fremont Island. Larry was worried -- there's already one boat on Fremont, wrecked, tossed well above the water line -- and he gave the "don life vests" order. It was small consolation to know that, if the boat did wreck, it would be in water shallow enough to wade in if we had to, but who wants to do that?

Around midnight, maybe later, the radio crackled with the voice of Dave Ghizzone, who runs the boat rental concession(click!) on the island. I called him today to thank him, and he said Division of Natural Resources folks had been trying to raise Larry on the radio but hadn't been able to, so he gave it a try.

Amazing sunset

Dave was a Godsend.  Dave could see Larry's masthead light and between the two of them they got a rough idea of our location.  Larry was heading north, hoping to wait out the storm or find a place to shelter, but Dave said the storm seemed to be abating down at Antelope Island and Larry ought to turn around and head back.

So we did. Dave stayed in contact until it looked as if we were going to make it OK.

Around here I lost track of time and events. I was in and out of sleep. I remember Larry yelling "We're in the harbor!" and the boat gave a solid "thunk!" as it bumped into the slip. I looked at my watch -- it was nearly 2 a.m.

Four hours of that. I was a mess, Carla wasn't much better, and if you think this means Larry, who's 10 years older than I am, should have been dead on his feet, you'd be right, but he still seemed reasonably chipper. He is the guy I try to keep up with on my bicycle.

I staggered off, Carla drove home. Larry told me the next day he just buttoned up the boat, climbed into the cabin, and slept for five hours.

Larry, still dry, before the storm

Lessons learned: When there's a storm offing, get off the lake before it can get close. Storms hit fast on the lake, the water is heavy with salt, and the night is dark out there.

And if you do get caught, pray you've got someone like Larry running things.

Museums Keep Progress From Burying The Past

I ran into Lee Witten, Union Station's chief archivist, wading through stacks of old 8mm movie film the other day.

Lee Witten shopping for high tech equipment

Someone donated his life-time collection of home movies shot while working for the railroad, and Lee said there's some amazing stuff there, engines and other rolling stock on runs throughout the West.

Problem is, this is 8mm film. To look at it you need an 8mm film projector, an item no longer made. Lee has one, but even with that he was going nuts. To properly view and index the films he had to go through them slowly, almost frame-by-frame, looking to see what is being shown, stopping the film to write down what he sees, and then start it up again.

"What I need is one of those film editing things that let you look at it frame by frame," he said. He was referring to a device that runs the film through a simpler light box device with a lens and light source that projects the film onto a small screen. You wound the film through by hand and stopped to make cuts and splices.

This is also a device no longer made. "Lemme see what I can find," I told Lee.

I was riding my bicycle up to the Deseret Industries that morning anyway, and when I got there, lo and behold, there were two of those editors sitting in the display case. One was $20, the other $30, so I called Lee who came up and bought the cheaper of the two.

As it turns out, the light in the editor is pretty dim, so Maurice Greeson, another volunteer, is trying to clean it up and boost it's output.

A 1960s film editor

This is the way it is in this business. History was recorded using old technology, so it takes old technology to see it. Eventually Lee would like to get the cream of those old movies digitized and put on DVD so they can be used by the public, but here's the kicker: How long will DVDs be viewable?

Don't laugh. Twenty five  years ago nobody questioned that VHS tapes were a good way to archive family memories. Now we know VHS tapes shrink with age and eventually quit working. Plus, nobody makes a VHS player anywhere on the planet.

The pace of technological change is quickening, too, and along with that the pace of change of the software/tools needed to view what that technology records. Diaries kept on old computer floppy discs are going to be unreadable, if not already. Do you have a floppy drive laying around? Modern computers, increasingly, don't even have a disc drive -- everything's in the cloud.

For archivists, this is a huge problem.  They have to haunt junk stores and thrift shops, and get darn good at tinkering, just to revive the memories of the 1950s and 1960s. Stuff from the 70s and 80s, recorded in now-dead computer language and text systems, is going to be a nightmare in another 20 years, if not already.

In a way, those old 8mm movies are still the best archival video system around. Kodachrome has amazing staying powers, the film is a physical object that you can hold up to the light and look at, the technology to do that is pretty simple as these things go, relatively easy to reinvent; all you need is a lens and a light source.

Bottom line: If you have memories stored on your family computer, such as journals, diaries, pictures and other things, give some serious thought to making high-waulity DVD transfers now, while it is still possible. All text and images should be printed on paper. Paper lasts centuries and only takes looking at to view.

Your museum archivist of the future will thank you.

Final Osral Allred Art Show, other Union Station stuff

-- You really need to get to Gallary at the Station's show for July and August. It features paintings by Osral B. Allred and sculpture by Nancy Whipple.

This is a critical show because the works by Allred (click)  may never be seen in a public showing again. Union Station Foundation Director Roberta Beverly tells me that Allred is not well and after this his family is not going to show his work or have it for sale any more.

So, last chance to see a great display of work by a great Utah artist.

-- A lot of people have asked when the gift shop at Union Station will reopen. It was closed to make room for the new cowboy museum.

The shop will open in later August or, as the sign says, perhaps September? That's the plan anyway. It is located in the hallway to Union Grill where Warren's Train Shop used to be.

Meanwhile, the ticket booth for Union Station's museums has moved into a small cubby formerly occupied by a news stand. It has a small supply of station-related souvenir and gift items for sale, including Thomas Tank Engine Pez dispensers and one of the cutest piggy banks I've ever seen.

-- Speaking of Union Grill, I noticed a row of tables and stacks of very photogenically weathered chairs out front of Union Station this morning.

Those tables and chairs are part of Union Grill's new outdoor luncheon and dinner service. The restaurant will serve meals on the patio as long as weather allows. Kym Buttschardt, one of the owners, said they tried last weekend but were rained out, and tonight's not looking so good either.

Those chairs all look nicely weathered and old, but they're actually new. Kym said they're also working on getting some umbrellas.

The only thing now is to clear up whether you can order beer with your dinner out there. Kym said that's still in the works.

Ogden, Trunk Murder Central, or "You shipped us what?"

OK, so it didn't happen a lot, but Union Station did have  dead people show up in trunks at least twice that I can find. We'll look at the first one today, almost exactly 100 years after it happened.

Sunday, June 29, 1913's morning Examiner

We don't hear much about trunk murders any more. The main reason, I suspect, is that modern mass transit does not lend itself to trunks. Ever try to carve up your strangled lover and stuff her into an airplane carry-on? And nobody wants to pay extra charge because their dead boyfriend simply would not lay off the cheeseburgers and the suitcase is way over the weight limit.

Not to mention the X-ray scanner issue. TSA spoils everyone's fun.

Trunks were more readily available in the early part of the last century.   Lots of folks used them to store clothes at home. They were easy to haul to the train station and load onto a baggage car. They came many convenient sizes. Steamer trunks, used for ocean travel, are about four  feet tall when you stand them on end and open to reveal drawers and a place to hang clothes, an instant bedroom set almost.

So if you had a body to get rid of, a trunk was an obvious place. Just push the stiff in, close the lid, call the freight office and send the deceased to somewhere obscure.

Like Ogden.

In June of 1913, a mere 100 years ago, Mrs. Minnie Ekman of Salt Lake City had a problem. She was broke and a single mom. Her third (or second? We are not sure) husband had left her and she was hoping to hook up with Charles Anderson, her first husband with whom she had reconciled after not seeing him for 14 years, and start a new life.

But there was this kid, her daughter, little Frances Williams, 10, child of her second boyfriend.

Mrs. Ekman had a confused domestic life. She'd married Anderson 14 years before but he left her. Somewhere around 10 years before she had a relationship with someone named George Williams, which is why her daughter had that last name.

And, finally, August Ekman, to whom she was married five years before, had dumped her three weeks before and moved to Kemmerer, Wyoming.

Minnie wrote a letter to Anderson asking to reconcile, but before he got to Salt Lake to discuss matters she, apparently, on Monday, June 23, took care of the child problem herself.

When Anderson got to Salt Lake on June 24, a Tuesday, he found her at her home, selling her furnishings. There was a trunk in the hallway. He said it didn't look like a good enough trunk to take traveling, she said it was all she had. When he asked what had happened to her daughter, Mrs. Ekman said Frances was dead. Apparently Mr. Anderson neglected to ask how recently she had died.

The couple checked into separate hotels in Salt Lake City. On Wednesday they went back to her house which was being emptied by the furniture removers. They retrieved the trunk, and both checked into the same hotel room in Salt Lake, staying Wednesday and Thursday nights. The trunk was in their room

On Friday Anderson said he wanted to go to Ogden to look for work, so the couple caught the train, checked their larger luggage into the Union Station baggage room and rented a room at the Windsor Hotel, which still stands.

Saturday morning Minnie told Anderson she had changed her mind again and wanted to go back to Salt Lake City. Anderson went to Union Station, bought her a ticket, and went to the baggage room to have her luggage checked back to Salt Lake City.

While moving the trunk out onto the platform to be put on the train, the baggage handler, William Frost,  noticed hair poking from under the trunk's lid. There was also a bad odor.

Frost pulled the trunk back into the baggage room and called Station Master John Shields. Police were called, the trunk forced open. There lay the nude body of Frances Williams, buried amid sheets and other clothes, her head cradled under a pillow the young girl had cross-stitched with the saying "My Rambling Rose."

While police pondered the grizzly discovery at a local funeral home, Shields asked Williams for a description of the man who had checked the trunk. He then wandered into the waiting room, looked around, and saw the man, sitting with a woman, waiting for their train.

Shields called Yard Master R. H. Pierce, a burly man, for backup muscle. He approached the couple and, claiming to be trying to straighten out confusion over misplaced luggage, asked the woman if she had any baggage. The woman said she did, a trunk, and showed her baggage ticket. Shields checked and saw that it matched the one of the trunk with the body.

Armed with this evidence, Stationmaster Shields and Yard Master Pierce went back to the waiting room and confronted Ekman:

She admitted to the crime under his questioning -- Wow, no Miranda warning!!! -- and Shields took her into custody.

Ekman was taken back to Salt Lake City for trial, but never convicted. Instead, she was ruled insane and put in the state mental hospital.