CANADIAN BACON AND SHRIMP PIZZA, PLEASE

Admiring the purple, marshmallow jacket that had just arrived for Lizzy, Brook giggled that it reminded her of the jacket I may have worn when I snuck the pizza into the movie theatre. “Mom, didn’t you write that story?” Meaning, had I written about the now-famous incident? “I love that story,” emphasizing love.

          Middle of a Utah summer, some good people brought by badly needed clothes for Lizzy. She and Brook had recently returned to live with us from California. Winters in this part of Utah can get mighty cold; never mind how deceiving the summers can be. Brook was going through the bounty when out of nowhere she was reminded of an incident that took place years before her own birth and even longer from when our sweet Lizzy was even thought of. My…what nostalgia came over me…

          It was 1983. My family had recently moved to Lake Los Angeles, California from Mission Hills - which was part of the San Fernando Valley. Lake Los Angeles was situated about 27 miles from both Lancaster and Palmdale – way out in the middle of the desert. Developed mainly as a real estate ploy, the small “lake” was in actuality a pond named “Lake Los Angeles” and a means to get people away from the city.  It was surrounded by buttes - mountains that looked like islands in the middle of the sand. There was very little to do, except to hike the buttes or get your car stuck out in the desert. Forgive me for the errors of my youth but I am guilty as ever of this.

I wanted to show my brothers a good time, prove to them their sister was “cool,” not some innocent, air-head.  So we tried to climb a butte with my white, two-door, ’66 Chevy Impala. I mean, others were trying it with their vehicles, why couldn’t I? We also drove out in the sandy soil, off the beaten, paved road, just to see if we could do it. Remember, this is well before cell phones and intelligence as we now know it. It was near dark and the nearest house was in the distance. Leaving my young siblings in the car (they were 17, 14, and 9) I hiked to the house to ask the man to call my family. Bill Arndt, a family friend rescued us. If memory serves me correctly, this was not the last time this happened. As I write this, I feel a strong urge to send a text to my step-mother, apologizing AGAIN for my errant youthfulness. Still, I can forgive my own kids a lot easier because of adventures such as these.

          For a good time, we had to “go to town,” meaning Lancaster or Palmdale. Lancaster had a mall with a cinema. A Christmas Story, starring Peter Billingsley was showing. My friends from Mission Hills came up to hang out one exceptionally fine, December Saturday. Billy, my off and on again boyfriend, was wearing his Los Angeles King’s jacket. The Kings were the hockey team that we all idolized. The jacket was large, even on him, and he was tall – or so I thought. So imagine how it would look on petite, little me.

          We went for pizza at a joint across from the theatre with the intention that we would sneak it in. Deciding to be creative we chose two large pizzas: Canadian bacon with shrimp and I believe pepperoni. It was unusual but I wanted to be different. We also ordered drinks that conveniently fit into my purse. But what about the pizzas? How do you sneak two large pizzas into a movie theatre and especially a crowded theatre without provoking some sort of suspicion? Easy! I would wear Billy’s jacket and pretend to be pregnant. He would cradle my arm into his as if he was trying to be extra tender, considering how far along I looked.

          Cautiously going through the “check point” where they take your tickets, I clearly and distinctly remember the looks the employees gave us. Mark Dow, one of our friends, had such a childlike gaze about him. Billy was as tender as he could have been, gently telling me to be careful. The smell of shrimp eluded from the place a child was supposedly attached under the watchful eyes of the ticket masters and yet…not a word was said.

          Once inside we sat near the back. The theatre was dark. Commercials and trailers blazed across the screen. Patrons munched on their popcorn and candy while we insidiously passed around the forbidden cache of food. Umph…oh so delicious! Who would have ever guessed such a delectable savor could come from this unique choice of toppings!

          Tinged with minute regret at leaving the empty boxes for the staff to clean up and discover our indiscretions, we left. Never have I been able to see this movie without the reminder of a simple fete of Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza being snuck into see it. It represents not only the ingenuousness of youth, but too, the simple pleasures of life that only come from trying something new.

          Nearly 30 years later during a particularly sticky summer the smell of that period prevailed like a warm blanket on a cold, winter morning beckoning me to come home to a time that no longer exists except in the crevices of my memory. I am ever so young and naïve again, wishing for them to walk through the door as if they had simply gone to the market for a soda.

          I called local pizza place to order a small Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza. “Sorry, we don’t carry shrimp on the premises” was the reply. Hmmm…so off to the store to get some just to see if the taste buds could still handle it.

Kelli McDonald, July 28, 2012, Lehi, Utah

The Picture

Years ago I wanted to write a book about the women of Kern County dating from the 1910’s through the early 1950’s. That era and the area seemed to encompass the fortitude of strength. These were women of diverse cultures such as the Mennonites, Blacks, Hispanics, Whites, Catholics, Mormons’ Baptists, Japanese decent and so on. They lived through World War I, the building of new settlements, The Great Depression, The Exodus of migrant workers, World War II, and the Korean War.

 My grandmother was LDS. She came from strong LDS pioneer stock. Her people came west from Nauvoo, Illinois to Utah in the 1850’s. Brigham Young sent her family south to the dry, arid land of Southeast Arizona to cultivate a settlement. Grams was active in the Church her entire life. My dad says his mom attended several different churches just so she could attend Sunday meetings.

 Grams married my grandfather in 1913. His family was also LDS and came from Indiana. Tradition holds that he broke every promise he ever made to her. I don’t remember how they ended up in Kern County. They had a family of fourteen kids – two of whom died in infancy – and most likely transverse to the area looking for work.  

 When I moved back to Utah in December 2002, I was looking for places to research the Bakersfield area from the confines of Utah. Some suggested the Archives of the LDS Church in Salt Lake.  So, I did. What I did not anticipate was the plethora of information on my own family. I began looking through the attendance rolls of the various auxiliary meetings. Of special interest was the Relief Society Meetings.  They included notes of who was sick, who died, who was moving, as well as the progress on the new Relief Society Room. In these notes I found many members of my family mentioned – those who I would never have suspected of ever stepping foot inside a church, let alone the LDS Church!

It was the summer of 2003. I was out of work and earnestly searching. Perusing the notes on a daily basis left me with a sense of wonder at what these fine people looked liked. As if in answer to my prayer I came across an entry telling about the photo that was to be taken for the Relief Society Magazine. I quickly ran downstairs to the library that held all of the magazines from the past. Upon finding their picture I got the distinct impression they were saying, “Here we are!”  I copied the picture along with the names of those long-ago-women who now seemed like old friends, including my grandmother, Zella Dodge McDonald.

 Fast forward to July 2011. Climbing to the top of the stairs in the Mount Timpanogos Temple in American Fork, Utah, there stood a woman by the last name of Gabbitas. Gabbitas was the name of a family frequently mention in the notes I had been transcribing the summer of 2003. I asked her the whereabouts of her family. She said her husband’s family was from the Bakersfield area. I told her about the picture saying I was sure her mother-in-law was in it. Sadly, she was not but her name was one that was mentioned. As promised, I delivered a copy of the picture for her at the temple.

 In August, Cheryl Gabbitas was visiting with old friends, Roger and Jackie Campbell. She mentioned my name. Roger wondered if I could be the same one whose father he had hung around when they were teenagers in the early 1950’s. He called and left a message. Yes, I was! The last time I had seen Roger and Jackie was when my second child was just a baby. He had brought out a chair my dad had made for her. My daughter now had a child of her own.

Roger and my dad had been close friends. Roger dated Dad’s younger sister, Joyce. Cheryl and her husband were good friends with Dad’s older brother, Dean, and his wife, Anna. Both Joyce and Dean have long since crossed over to the other side.

In October 2011 we were all able to get together in American Fork, Utah for dinner. It amazes me at how I was looking for material to write a book about one particular topic and stumbled into an unexpected surprise – the picture and the stories connected to it. I wasn’t trying to find information on my family but I did – much more, some of which ended in completing further temple work along with developing a better understanding of my own family.

I have found that researching family history is more than collecting data for temple work. It’s looking past to the past and seeing who these people were with all the smells, sounds, and feels of the time. “And like the warm breezes blowing through the fields, they are felt too. Remember? They were here just yesterday.”

~Kelli L. McDonald, January 3, 2012