Chapter One

My father was descended on his paternal side from Miles Standish, one of the Mayflower pilgrims. The family was poor but respectable. His mother's family had arrived from Sweden around 1840; his grandmother, whom he particularly loved, was proud of having once baked a cake for the king of Sweden. She was also proud of the large set of milk glass which she had brought with her from the old country.

Both sides of my father's family came to Colorado by covered wagon in the mid-nineteenth century. They settled close to and in plain sight of the high snow-covered Sangre de Cristo range. His father built the family house from trees he chopped and shaped himself.

My father was born on this small farm outside Delta, Colorado, in early 1904, followed by his two sisters at short intervals. As a child and adolescent he had to do hard manual work on the farm, with its orchards, fields, horses, cattle, and chickens. One of his favorite stories was how he had to walk four miles to school, sometimes through the snow. One year the Fourth of July parade in Delta was cancelled because of a blizzard. These were what he remembered as hardships of his childhood.

He also told, with all seriousness, of occasionally hearing bells tinkling in the night, and when he looked out his window he would see the "little people" marching along, carrying lanterns, singing, and ringing their bells. He thought they were fairies or elves and knew enough not to go outside and try to approach them. He never found out who they were.

He didn't like his two younger sisters and told of how, after their gr