The Cement Factory and Homecomings

As is a tradition in Tremonton when a missionary comes home, Clint and I had the pleasure of accompanying my dad to the cement factory to add to the structural support of the outer walls. For those of you who do not know what in the world I am talking about let me explain. Right off I-15 between the 900 N exit in Brigham City and the Honeyville exit there lies an ancient ruin. This ruin has, over many many years, become the cornerstone to announce love notes, thoughts, graffiti, and the frequent arrival of missionaries. This is done through a lot of paint! This fantastic ruin is called the cement factory; simply because it use to be a factory that produced cement. Creativity at its finest, I know. When Phillip came home, my family proceeded to the cement factory to participate in this tradition. After winding our way through the hills and over uncharted roads (for us anyway), we proceeded to the fences. Of course this area is fence off with a "No Trespassing" sign marking the outskirts of the area. But who really pays any attention to these anyway?

After climbing over fences, fallen parts of the building, and up stairs that seemed questionable to cross, we made it to the front of the building. Dad reached and reached to paint the largest welcome home on the wall only to realize on the way home that the welcome back we had created appeared no bigger than a hand written note on standard paper. Needless to say, it was very hard to see. This baffled us seeing as we (we meaning my dad) reached up as far as possible to ensure it was huge! So Phillip came home (in the dark mind you) and didn't even get to see the trouble we went through to ensure he was included in this timeless tradition.

So here comes Kim home. Another chance to redeem ourselves with the whole Phillip incident. Dad looked through the old paint from past home improvement projects to find a lot of shades of off-white. So he treks his way down to the local hardware store to get a darker shade to stand out against the mountains of white my parents have acquired. He returned home with a reject. It was a gallon of paint that was mixed incorrectly and set aside to be discarded. Needless to say, it was quite obvious why it was discarded. We opened it up to expose a brilliant shade of muddy brown.

So off we go to continue the tradition that was once thought to only be a requirement once in the life of our family. By this point the rain had subsided and the sky was getting darker by the minute. After getting bundled up in coats and gloves, Clint, my dad, and I jumped into the truck with the tallest ladder we had, two gallons of paint, two paint rollers complete with extensions, and a variety of other supplies to make this work. After arriving to the end of the road we got everything out and began the trek.

The very first obstacle we encountered was but three feet in front of the truck: a fence. Not really a big deal. Clint and I slid the items we were carrying through the gate and proceeded to climb over. Now I haven't really climbed a lot of gates or fences, but I guess my dad was in a bit more of a hurry, so he decided to face the barbed wire fence instead of the metal gate. Yes, he got caught. Quite amusing really because that doesn't happen a whole lot to him. Granted he doesn't really climb over barbed wire fences daily. After breaking free, the trek through the mud began.

The mud there was a combination of clay, silt, and A LOT of water (it had been raining all day), so we slid, sunk, and slugged our way through to the crumbling building where we found some scary looking stairs to climb and many other obstacles to make our way through to the side. Because of all of the rain, there was no way we would be making it to the front where we left Phillip's mark, so we stopped at the side. There, next to other masterpieces, we began painting. As we painted, we discovered what was truly holding the cement factory together: paint. There was about a good inch thick layer of paint that had begun to peal. This of course made our job harder, but still fun.

After the white was applied we (we of course meaning Clint and Dad) began to apply the lettering in the brilliant brown my dad had acquired. Yes it had begun to rain again, yes the white was still wet, and yes the brown ran all over! Even after a grand attempt to fix it, there was still a glorious stream of brown running onto the base of the building.

As Kim was brought home the next day, a close look at the damage from the rain was observed: it looked quite Gothic. At least that is the description I pinned it at. You can decide for yourself. That is, for those of you who are still reading it. Long winded, I know, but worth every bit!

WELCOME HOME, KIM!!!