David B. Thompson

Husband, father, grandfather, and more, David B. Thompson, 84, died peacefully at home on July 6, 2015, from causes incident to his advancing age.

Born March 24, 1931, in the tiny hospital in Salina, Sevier County, Dad was the eldest of the five children born to Burton Monroe and Bessie Jackson Thompson. His childhood was typical for the 1930s in rural, small-town Utah. Let's just say, Dad was raised "free range." The hills, haunts and swimming hole of the town were his to enjoy as much as he wanted, as they were for all the local boys. (There may have been girls in Salina in those days, but, for some reason, they never figured into any of the tales.) He traded eggs from the chicken coop for admission to see the occasional movie. His early school years were a little complicated. All the grades met in one building; Dad's father was the principal, and his mother an occasional school secretary. It meant that Dad was not well-liked, by some of the rowdier boys. He was baptized up the highway, in the Manti Temple, a common occurrence in the day, which seems odd to us now. Fortunately, his family did not suffer through any economic dislocation, like so many did during the depression. The family moved to Salt Lake City in 1940, so that Dad's father could further his career in education administration.

Dad's maternal grandfather, Frank Jackson, was foreman for the Skorup cattle operation. With the older of his siblings, Dad passed portions of many summers at what the family still calls Grandpa's Camp—near Lost Creek Reservoir and Seven Mile Creek, 10,000 feet high on the Wasatch Plateau—where the cattle grazed for the summer. Dad never lost his love for the area, visiting whenever time and circumstances would permit. His last visit was July 2014, at age 83, when he was still able to walk the area, with only a little assistance from a son and a grandson. Evidence at the site—initials carved in the Quakies—indicates that 78 years passed between Dad's first and last visit to the camp.

In his own words, Dad had a "super" time at West High School. He was a pretty good student, played some football, and absolutely relished auto mechanics. He was having such a good time, he deliberately flunked one minor class, which left him half-a-credit shy of graduation. That way he could continue high school for an extra year. He graduated in 1949 as a super senior (23 credits against the required 18). At West High Dad met our mom, Jeanne Marie Harrison, a singer with a wonderful voice and a beautiful face, and a member of the pep club. They were, as the saying goes, the opposites that attract.

After a year or so of dating, they slipped away one day, without telling anyone, and were married by a Mormon bishop in Preston, Idaho, June 10, 1950. (Somehow it seemed the natural thing to do: Mom's parents—the Harrisons—had done pretty much the same thing themselves.) After eloping, the two spent afternoons together in a small apartment on 4th Avenue at the foot of the Memory Grove stairs, separately returning to their parents' homes in the evenings. They kept it up for a few months, until the coming arrival of their first child (born 9 months and 9 days after the wedding) brought their marital status into the open. In later years Mom was embarrassed about the choice they had made. But it's a blessing—isn't it?—to turn a youthful impulse into a marital journey (and a family) that has lasted all these years. Is there a better measure of their character?

In 1951 Dad joined the Utah Air National Guard, because during the Korean War, enlistment provided better options than being drafted. When part of the unit was activated, he was sent to Clovis (now Cannon) AFB in New Mexico. Living on the base did not sound very appealing to the young family, so Dad and Mom (with Sherri) rented a place just down the highway in the delightfully named Muleshoe, Texas. While on active duty Dad continued his knack for things mechanical, supporting the war effort with assignments in maintenance and welding. Mom hated the large cockroaches that flourish there on the Texas-New Mexico border. She would cover them with a cooking pot, for Dad to slay when he came home at the end of his shift.

Mustering out brought them back home to Salt Lake, where Dad took the skills he had refined and amplified in the Guard, and went to work in the fabrication shop at Industrial Steel Company. After a couple of years in the shop, he took a gamble for a better future. He accepted a cut in pay, to move into the office and work the order desk. Dad never looked back. He rose to Sales Manager, before the company ran into financial difficulty. Forced to move on, he was soon invited to become a partner at Tech Steel Inc., whence he retired after 28 years.

Our Dad was never afraid of work! As the 1950s ran on, he had the crazy idea that he could afford a larger house for his growing brood if he built it himself. He and friends took turns helping each other build houses, so they could raise their families in comfort. Much, much later, that house was bought by eldest son Dave, Jr., in part so he and loving wife Mary could care for Mom and Dad in their declining years. It was and still is—at least in our hearts—home, for all seven of the children, who, in turn, bring the in-laws, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, whenever we come home. Dad and Mom lived together there for 57 years.

Dad achieved a dream of his to transition from the outside of the aircraft to the cockpit, when in 1962 he joined the Alta Flying Club and soloed in a Cessna 172. Over the years that followed Dad achieved single- and multi-engine ratings in several aircraft, along with his IFR ticket, eventually logging more than 2,000 hours as pilot-in-command. All the kids had the chance to toss a T-shirt, a pair of cut-offs and a change of clothes into One-Niner Charlie (the company's plane), for the hour-and-forty-five-minute flight to Lake Powell, followed by days of houseboating and water skiing. Those were marvelous good times. Mom didn't much enjoy the flying (to put it mildly), but put up with the plane ride on at least a few occasions.

Dad was an early adopter of the whole Lake Powell scene. His love for the area started when—with friends or leading church youth activities—he rafted many of the stretches of the Colorado River that later were submerged by the lake. Once again Dad's opposite number, Mom, is also known to have run the rapids, even "bathing" in the mud: stinky, sticky, black mud, if you can believe it. We have photos to prove that she made the hike up, followed by the climb down onto the crown of Rainbow Bridge, with Dad. They both wore the painted pith helmets and received the pins awarded to "official" River Rats. After the dam was closed, hiking, boating and skiing at Lake Powell (there were other venues, too) were for many years our main form of family recreation, which Dad willingly sponsored and shared with all, including with in-laws and his own siblings (and his nieces and nephews). He proudly wore the "captain's" hat, driving a variety of boats, and was heard to say that to his way of thinking, heaven just might look like Bullfrog Bay—with someone else's Chevron card.

Dad had other interesting ideas about theology, one of which offered a competing vision of heaven. As he saw it, heaven probably existed somewhere in southeastern Idaho. To wit: A cornfield full of rooster pheasants, and someone else flushing the birds. Dad did his share of pushing the pheasants, towards his companions, so they too could get in some good shooting. There were many years where the group of friends rented a room for the entire six-week pheasant season at what they "fondly" dubbed the Hagerman Hilton, so they could leave their gear, and then run up for a hunt anytime it suited. Dad often took one or more of the kids along, so we could play the role of bird dog, tracking, pushing and fetching.

For the most part, both Mom and Dad came into full church activity after they married, and it was Mom who did the much of the work of bringing the gospel into our home when we were children. But Dad was supportive, insistent if needed, about our attendance. And he was always there with us, and willing to help with outdoor activities. He took his boys to work on the stake's welfare farm and watched us through years of church sports. He taught the Gospel Doctrine class ably, for many years, and blessed all three sons and one daughter by paying for their full-time missions. Dad "conspired" with his sister Kathleen and her husband Beau Woodbury, who were serving as the first directors of the newly opened church visitors' center at Kirtland, Ohio. And so a full-time mission call came. Mom and Dad served two extended-summer-season missions, helping visitors understand the history of the church in Kirtland.

For many years Dad served twice weekly in the Salt Lake Temple. (For six months he served four times each week, by adding twice-a-week sessions in the Manti Temple.) There, in the temple, Dad was transcendent, memorizing and filling all the roles, fascinated by the temple itself. Any of the children and grandchildren whom he guided on his private tour, learned something about the Salt Lake Temple, and shared in his joy at being there. Mom too went twice weekly; she loved helping the brides. It's true that Dad did not bear his personal testimony often. When he did, he expressed his love and gratitude for his family, as he also did when he led in family prayer.

Dad was man's man, shaped by his generation, immune to the "charms" of the 1980s and 1990s when the manly virtues fell into disfavor, in so many places. Dad thought it was his job to be in charge, to make decisions, to earn the money and to provide for his family. If he seemed a little authoritarian at times, it was benign. Mom held her own, when she thought it was important to do so. Like those of his era, Dad was guarded with his feelings, and with verbal expressions of love. But to the end, he could occasionally be seen shyly holding hands with Mom. They would pat each other on the leg, when they sat close. If, from time to time, Dad seemed a bit uncaring, sarcasm was his cover for feelings he was not comfortable with. (Grandbabies were a partial cure. Who can resist?) For him, love was being in charge, providing for his family, and enjoying good times together, all of which he did in abundance.

Mom always thought she belonged at Dad's side. It's true he could be hard to contain at times. That meant Mom followed him, wherever, so she could care for him, and so he wouldn't be alone. She flew in the planes, floated in the boats, bathed in the mud, lived in the fifth-wheel trailer (for months on end), drove around hunting for mourning dove or pheasant, and for years arose at 3:00 AM every Friday, to be with him in the temple. Our famous-for-hair-and-makeup Mom was even passenger—for thousands of miles—on the back of those big, Yamaha motorcycles. She was not so keen on the riding, but went along because she thought it was important to be with Dad. Failing health for the both of them resulted in a quiet celebration of their 65th wedding anniversary, less than a month before Dad passed.

Sadly, Dad was preceded in death by all of his younger siblings, except for Don. But Mom is still with us. There are seven children and the much beloved in-laws, 40 grandchildren and 64 great grandchildren. If you could see all of them together, sense how much they enjoy being with each other, observe how they have raised their own families, and watch how they serve: each other, the church and the community.... If you are able to gather all that in, you will be witness to the love that Dad has for Mom, and she for him. Those two impulsive teenagers made it work, didn't they? Dad's passing is sadness. But it isn't tragedy, and isn't unexpected. We shall miss him, but only for a time. The gospel of Jesus Christ assures that heaven is a continuation of the best of the family and personal relationships we develop in this life. Mom's declining cognition just might help her not to miss her companion of these past 65 years. If it is not inappropriate to do so, maybe we can hope that will be the case.

A gathering of friends and family will be held 6:00—8:00 PM Wednesday 8 July 2015 at Holbrook Mortuary, 3251 S 2300 E, Salt Lake City. Funeral services will be held at 11:00 AM Thursday 9 July 2015 at the Canyon Rim Stake Center, 3051 S 2900 E Salt Lake City. There will be a viewing at the stake center before the funeral, from 9:30-10:30 AM. In lieu of flowers please do something special with or for your family, and tell them you love them.