A History of Salt Lake County

Welcoming The World, 1990-1995

WELCOMINTHGE WORLD, 1990-1995 A flame, symbolic of the coming Olympic games, flared out-side the City-County Building on 16 June 1995, lit by gold medalist Tommy Moe. As the Tabernacle Choir burst into a rousing rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner," the fever that had long driven valley boosters and government officials peaked with the announcement in Budapest, Hungary, that Salt Lake City would host the 2002 Winter Games. The nod from the International Olympic Committee came on an unprecedented first vote, excitedly received by Salt Lake City mayor Deedee Corradini, Governor Mike Leavitt, and Olympic Committee chair Tom Welch, present with other Salt Lakers amid the throng. Polls showed that slightly more than half of Salt Lake County res-idents favored "welcoming the world" to the valley. The effort had gained support from organizations ranging from the AFL-CIO to the LDS church; it involved numerous donors and had been shepherded by Salt Lake City mayor Palmer DePaulis and former governor Norm Bangerter for much of the previous decade. The sporting events were not at issue so much as the steady spotlight shed on Salt Lake County WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1, 990-1995 309 The announcement on 16 June 1995 that Salt Lake City would host the 2002 Winter Olympic Games was greeted with great enthusiasm by a crowd at the City and County Building. (Lave11 Call-Deseret News) throughout the bid process, one that would only glare brighter with the games themselves, encompassing most of the Wasatch Front and perhaps much of the state. Salt Lake City would accommodate ath-letes and journalists while various events gained sites in Kearns, West Valley City, and Cottonwood, in Ogden and Provo, and in ski resorts outside the county. Anticipation burst into a flurry of preparation as plans prolifer-ated to beautify cities, expand facilities, and build new ones; all this stimulated the economy which sparked optimism and promised growth. Meanwhile the state centennial and the county sesquicen-tennial anniversaries approached in 1996, offering an appropriate juncture for reviewing the past, examining the present, and envi-sioning the future. Once again the world was coming to the Salt Lake Valley, and, as always, it would bring its own expectations as well as its dollars. Already Salt Lake County epitomized growth within the state; in 1993 Utah tied with Arizona for fourth place on the nation's growth chart with 1.86 million residents, a 2.7 percent growth rate.' In 1990 Salt Lake County's unemployment rate was only 3.8 percent com-pared with 4.3 statewide and 5.5 nationally.' New neighborhoods and enterprises bloomed and flourished throughout the increasingly urban county where intent to incorporate unfurled nearly every-where. Some called the impulse a county-wide version of Manifest Destiny while others saw it as self-defense against envelopment in another community's city. Much in evidence was the historic enthusiasm that in the nine-teenth century had created an "instant city"' in the wilderness; had transformed the valley from a religious experiment to a reflection of national trends and patriotism; had influenced national politics on "moral issues" such as equal rights; and had introduced the artificial heart and cold fusion to a skeptical world. Yet while the Olympics promised a pinnacle of acceptance and entrepreneurialism, voices urging planning and restraint also found expression. In specific ways, further development provoked caution, even suspicion, amid the general euphoria. Some cities, many classrooms, major roads, and popular canyons had reached their limits. In addi-tion, harmful land and water pollution and summer haze followed by winter smog demanded that amends be made to the past and respect offered to the present environment for its intrinsic beauty and fragility. Due to ecological concerns, the Salt Lake County Commission had removed Big and Little Cottonwood canyons from the list of prospective Olympic sites. Also, Salt Lake County dealt more than most in the state with the pressing social problems of an urban society including demands on education, homelessness, civil liberties issues, and crime. One and one-half centuries after settle-ment, the Salt Lake Valley was a far different place than the grassy crossroads traversed by Native Americans, trappers, and explorers; yet as its peoples redefined the familiar "This is the place!" adage for the International Olympic Committee, a new sense of preservation began to moderate the tenured all-American drive for expansion, convenience, and prosperity. The reality that times had changed in the Salt Lake Valley was vis-ibly apparent to the nation and the world with the emergence of women in highly visible public offices. In 1991 Salt Lake City elected, WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 311 businesswoman Deedee Corradini who brought an uptown attitude and numerous ideas for transforming the city into a sophisticated metropolis. For instance, July 24th events such as the Neighbor Fair and July 24th fireworks moved from Liberty Park to downtown. The change was unsuccessful, however, and the fireworks were returned to the park. More popular was a First Night celebration that filled New Year's Eve with downtown revelers. Soon after her election, however, Corradini was scorched by scandal when the once-lucrative Bonneville Pacific Corporation declared bankruptcy, instigating criminal investigations by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the United States Justice Department, the Securities Commission, and the Internal Revenue Service. Corradini, a company founder, had been paid tens of thousands of dollars in expenses for consulting and owned a subsidiary com-pany which carried her home mortgage. The mayor and her hus-band, attorney Yan Ross, paid more than $600,000 to settle complaints even as company executives were indicted and one pleaded guilty and went to prison. Corradini rode out the contro-versy through a combination of cash settlements, chutzpa, and favor-able developments such as the Olympic bid, maintaining credibility with a majority of voters and narrowly winning a second term.4 Then amid a 1994 national Republican landslide, Mary Callaghan, a management consultant, became the first female Salt Lake County commissioner, upsetting Democratic commissioner Jim Bradley with 53 percent of the vote. That same year, Republican Enid Greene Waldholtz won a congressional seat from Democratic con-gresswoman Karen Shepherd who had triumphed over Waldholtz in 1992. Their congressional races were the first to involve two women since 1950 when Reva Beck Bosone won over Ivy Baker Priest. Waldholtz attracted national attention to herself and to the valley's birthrate and lifestyle when she gave birth to a daughter in 1995 while serving in Congress. Her tenure, too, was marked by scandal when financial irregularities in campaign funding and personal tax returns were scrutinized by federal investigators, as well as the very public break-up of her marriage. Sometimes it seemed in the 1990s that not only was the world being welcomed to the Salt Lake Valley, but had already moved in. In the 1990 census, Salt Lake County claimed 725,956 residents, by 1995 closer to 803,000, especially considering populations that were tradi-tionally undercounted. That number was expected to top one million early in the twenty-first century. The population roughly doubled the 383,035 residents counted in 1960. The phenomenon of a population doubling within thirty years was felt valley-wide as traffic thickened on freeways and main arter-ies, parking places became scarce, and the canyons and parks brimmed on holidays. Foothills and farmlands capitulated to man-sions or subdivisions laced by ever-widening roads and studded by malls and businesses. The shift into a post-industrial economy became increasingly apparent in the valley toward the century's end. Between 1970 and 1980, the percentage of non-agricultural Salt Lake County workers employed in manufacturing rose from 15.6 to 16.2 percent. A decade later, however, the percentage had dropped to 13.7 in 1990, shrink-ing further still to 11.9 percent in 1994. Concomitantly, the percent-age of non-agricultural Salt Lake County workers employed in the "services and miscellaneous" sector rose steadily from 16.9 percent in 1970 to a whopping 26.7 percent in 1994.' Gradually the county population was aging due to the maturity of the post-World War I1 generation and a lengthening lifespan. In 1960 residents over sixty years of age had slightly topped 10 percent, a ratio that increased by 1990 to 11.4 percent, with 82,744 senior cit-izens living in the county. The proportion of older residents was pro-jected to rise in decades to come, reaching 16.7 percent by the year 2020. By the time of the 2002 Olympics, Salt Lake County Aging Services expect the residents over age sixty to outnumber the chil-dren in elementary scho01.~ In 1990, however, the average county resident remained younger than his or her national counterpart-27.8 years compared to 32.8- but a little older than the average Utahn, who was 26.2. The reason was the birthrate. Utah continued to lead the nation, and 9.6 percent of Salt Lake County residents were too young to attend kindergarten compared with 7.4 percent in the nation.' Not only was the typical Salt Laker younger than the typical By 1995, growth was the byword in Salt Lake County, with a population of 803,000, roughly double the 383,035 residents counted in 1960. (A. Kelner) American, but the odds were 92 percent that he or she would be white-roughly the same as the state percentage. While the accep-tance of a pluralistic society had grown as a national and local value by the end of the twentieth century, minority communities in the val-ley remained proportionately tiny, even as their diversity and cultural strength brought increasing visibility. Most likely the typical Salt Lake County resident would be LDS-64.3 percent were in 1990,5 percent lower than in 1970 but 24 percent higher than in 1930.8 Still, religious diversity was evident, as Russian immigrants formed the Antiochian Orthodox parish of Saints Peter and Paul, housed in the former synagogue of the Congregation Montefiore-or as the Kanzeon Zen Center welcomed students of meditative Buddhism. Also, women clergy led out in many congregations. In April 1986 Dr. Eugenia Nitowski, who became Carmelite Sister Damian of the Cross, left her Salt Lake City home for Jerusalem. There she performed tests for the Environmental Study of the Shroud on the Shroud of Turin which allegedly bore the imprint of the resurrecting Christ. Closer to home, denominational ministries included the Reverend Barbara Holman-Holloway, co-minister of the South Valley Unitarian Church; the Reverend Nancy Darnell, associate pastor of Salt Lake's First Baptist Church; the Reverend Carol West, former pastor of the Mount Tabor-Lutheran Church and full-time chaplain at the Veterans' Affairs Medical Center; and the Reverend Caryl Marsh, rector of the St. Paul's Episcopal Church. In December 1995 a native of Salt Lake County, The Reverend Carolyn Tanner Irish, an Episcopal priest at the National Cathedral in Washington, was named Utah's tenth Episcopal bi~hop.~ In sum, however, the majorities dominant in Salt Lake County since statehood persisted despite the metropolitan sophistication of the late twentieth century. The chief differences appeared not in who Salt Lakers were but increasingly in how they lived. Interestingly, the average Salt Lake County resident was more likely to be a woman heading a family than in either the state or in the nation. Both marriage and divorce occurred among Salt Lakers more frequently than among other Utahns or Americans. Valley res-idents married at a rate of 11.3 per one thousand residents compared to a state average of 10.6 and 10.5 in the nation. They divorced at a rate of 6.2 per one thousand residents compared to 5.3 statewide and 4.9 in the nation.'' In 1990, in fact, female-headed households represented 13.9 per-cent of the families in Salt Lake County, compared with 11.9 percent in Utah and only 11.6 percent nationally. Given women's low average earning power and a plague of non-supporting fathers, many chil-dren lived in poverty. Overall, per capita personal income was higher in Salt Lake County than statewide, and the overall poverty rate lower than in either the state or the nation"; nevertheless, half of Utah's children lived in poverty, a reality reflected within the county. In the capital's Central City, that proportion rose to over 60 percent.'* Salt Lake City proper now claimed 160,000 residents, South Salt Lake another 11,000, and Murray an additional 3 1,300. West Valley City burgeoned just south and west with 96,000 people, closely fol-lowed by Sandy with 90,000. In these cities, land available for new development was quickly vanishing. West Valley City had come of age with greatly improved street WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 315 lighting, a police and fire department, and emergency medical ser-vices. Its traffic enforcement included the effective, if notorious, Photo COP, which used technology to catch speeders. The urban pri-orities of the late twentieth century were apparent when city leaders decided to use 1994 Community Development Block Grant funds to rehabilitate houses and mobile homes, to provide a shelter for the homeless, and to fund agencies such as DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), the Rape Crisis Center, and the Primary Children's Hospital, which provided counseling for sexually abused children. l3 The northwest quadrant of West Valley City lying between 5600 and 7200 West and 2100 and 3500 South streets remained undevel-oped due to the marshes, mud flats, and wet meadow protected by the federal Environmental Protection Agency. Developers applying for building permits included the Beneficial Development Company, the development arm of the LDS church, which planned a lake park to combine businesses with water recreation. Truckland Freightliner proposed a heavy-truck center and began planning ways to mitigate the impact on the natural environment.'" Sandy meanwhile became a prime example of post-haste plan-ning as its leaders wrestled not only present problems but also those created by the unfettered growth following World War 11. The battle of local residents with Utah Power and Light over the Dimple Dell substation which crisscrossed peopled areas with high-voltage lines illustrated the difficulty of inserting an infrastructure after develop-ment. Currently, developers wishing the annexation of lots along the foothills could count on objections from Sandy citizens. Voters also insisted that their city government lead out with laws requiring mandatory recycling and automated garbage pickup. By the mid-1990s, Sandy seemed united in its determination to grow better rather than bigger with an eye on becoming a hub for the entire South Valley. A $6 million city hall featured a tri-level design to provide numerous accessible offices. A satellite campus for the University of Utah Division of Continuing Education opened north of city hall. Localized sites relieved traffic and the student overload on the main campus and were convenient for numerous valley dwellers. Between these key buildings at 10000 South Street and the South Towne Mall to the north, city planners hoped to attract major retailers and all levels of government offices.15 West Jordan had become the state's sixth largest city with 52,000 residents, and it pressed for improved access to freeways and major arteries. City officials also found it necessary to cope with problems from polluted soil that tainted four subdivisions. Farmers who thought they were enriching their fields had trucked the earth from the Bingham Creek bed? Meanwhile South Jordan almost doubled between 1990 and 1995, claiming 24,000 residents. Upscale subdivisions now patched the familiar bucolic scene of farms, cottonwood trees, and moun-tains. The city's challenges included improving automobile access and development around the railroad crossings that hugged I- 15, as well as its consistent need for a water supply.17 Riverton's growth rate of 12 percent made it one of the state's fastest growing areas by the mid- 1990s with 16,000 residents. In 1994 the city government rezoned undeveloped land, requiring building lots to be at least one-third of an acre, hoping to gain the time to manage increased traffic, crowded schools, and the threat of urban sprawl. l8 Further south the population numbers dropped, yet Draper felt crowded with nine thousand residents. In 199 1, for instance, the city had approved subdivisions for 122 homes; only two years later, more than two thousand building lots were established. As in Riverton, city officials attempted to brake the momentum, adopting a temporary ordinance requiring building lots to be one-half acre. Meanwhile the city designed a gateway at 12300 South Street and Interstate 15 to thin the inevitable traffic among newly-planted trees and well-pre-served buildings. Once known for its farms and egg co-op, Draper hosted the 1995 home show, drawing the event farther south than ever before. Even Bluffdale, still comfortably rural with 3,100 resi-dents, watched the nearby growth uneasily.19 Up Little Cottonwood Canyon, Alta resolved to hold the line at its 400 residents, most of whom worked in the ski industry. More welcome than homeowners were the half million skiers who invaded the hamlet each year, leaving behind $1.6 billion in revenue.20 Originally named the West Valley Highway, the Bangerter WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 317 Highway stretched in the 1990s from the international airport to 9000 South Street. Planners predicted that the highway would push south during the second half of the decade, connecting South and West Jordan, Riverton, Draper, and Bluffdale, then sweep east and north through Sandy and Holladay to link with 2000 East Street in Salt Lake Cit~.~' Amid all the growth, incorporation became the byword through-out the unincorporated county from Magna on the west to Union to the south to Brighton up Big Cottonwood Canyon. Borders were drawn and redrawn within various communities whose leaders then lined up to persuade the Salt Lake County Commission. A feasibility study by the county followed to investigate the new city's economic viability. After review the commissioners would then call an election on whether to incorporate. An affirmative vote would bring a second election to elect city officials. In practical terms, the incorporation efforts required commis-sioners to juggle resources and services; however, each incorporation reduced the municipal services fund for citizens in the remaining unincorporated area. "It's better if the efforts all fail or all succeed," commented David Marshall, associate director of Salt Lake County Community and Support Services. Marshall said most new cities would contract with the county to provide municipal services-as did Draper for police and fire protection-unless, "like West Valley City, they swell their chests with their newly-found independence and say, 'No, we'll do it all oursel~es.'"~~ The Holladay area renewed its 1985 effort when six thousand petitioners requested a city called The Cottonwoods, roughly bounded by the Murray-Holladay Road and Casto Lane on the north, Interstate 215 on the east and south, and Highland Drive on the west. According to plan, this would place 6,800 residents in the state's fifteenth largest city. The lucrative Cottonwood Mall and the nearby Creekside Plaza became the breaking point, however. The commissioners rejected the petition because it gave a significant chunk of the tax base to the new city without an equivalent amount apparent in new city's expendi-tures. When negotiations between the proposed city and the county commission broke down, The Cottonwoods sued. Early in 1995, Increasingly, subdivisions encroached on pasture land and country living. Taylorsville-Bennion, Magna, Kearns, the Cottonwoods, and Union all pressed for incorporation. Even Draper, Bluffdale, and Alta began to feel crowded. (Lave11 Call-Deseret News) Commissioner Brent Overson told the Deseret News that the tax issue seemed likely to be decided by the court^.^' Taylorsville-Bennion had lost three bids for incorporation dur-ing the 1980s but tried again in the mid-1990s to become the state's fourth largest city with a population of 55,000. Carriage Square, the Mid-Valley Shopping Center, American Express, and the Sorensen Research Park all fell within its boundaries between Murray and West Valley City on the east and north respectively, 4000 West Street on the west and West Jordan to the south. Eyeing annexations proposed by Kearns and Murray, residents decided incorporation was the only way to avoid being consumed by their neighbors and won incorpo-ration in 1995.'" When Salt Lake City showed an interest in annexing Kennecott's tailings ponds, Magna also feared being gobbled and renewed its 1984 bid for incorporation. The town had seen hard times after the post-World War I1 suburban boom with closure of Kennecott's WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1, 990-1995 319 Magna mill and downsizing from 7,500 workers to 2,300. In addition, Hercules Bacchus Works cut back from 5,400 to 2,200 employees. In the mid-198Os, however, the cityscape had improved after the Salt Lake County Commission created a development agency which used federal grants to refurbish twenty-five buildings on Main Street to their 1920s appearance, attracting small businesses as tenant^.'^ By the 1990s, when the Magna population stood at 18,500, talk spread of the historic Main Street becoming a tourist attraction. Incorporation could make Magna the state's eighth largest city, and the Kennecott Corporation, Hercules West Bacchus Works, and Packard Bell would all lie within its boundaries between 7200 West Street and the Tooele County line, Interstate 80 on the north and 9600 South Street to the south. Citizens gained one thousand signa-tures ahead of Kearns, edging out their neighbor for third place in line in as much as the commission held to a "first in, first out" pol-icy. 26 Meanwhile Kearns drew its proposed boundaries between 4700 South and 8000 South streets and from the Bangerter Highway on the east to the Oquirrh Mountain ridgeline, including 40,000 resi-dents in what could become the state's sixth largest city. Portions of Kennecott and several commercial plazas would boost the tax base. Both the Taylorsville-Bennion and Magna efforts threatened to carve land from Kearns's east and west edges, and West Valley City had threatened to annex eleven acres to the north for a proposed shop-ping center.27 Union, lying between Interstate 215 and 7800 South Street and Thirteenth East and State streets, made its first incorporation move in 1994, trying again the next year. With 13,684 residents, Union could become the ninth largest city in the state, drawing revenue from the Family Center at Fort Union and several other commercial plazas. And, with so much incorporation anticipated in the valley below, residents of Big Cottonwood Canyon began to study estab-lishing a city called either Brighton or Silver Fork. Although not in line for incorporation, Midvale, too, envisioned a different future. Planners called it a potential Georgetown with winding streets and old homes graced by vintage-looking street-lamps, stylish restaurants, and restored architecture. In April 1994 the city purchased four pieces of rundown real estate in hopes of trans-forming the downtown properties into a museum, a park, and tem-porary parking2' Along with rapid growth and expansive dreams came pressure on existing resources and systems. The canyons ringing the valley had long provided a water supply, a lovely refuge, recreation, and tourist income. As homes mounted the foothills and vehicles scaled and sometimes scarred their slopes, the canyons' beauty and usefulness were compromised. Government responded on several levels. A toll booth went up in Millcreek Canyon, charging drivers a $2 fee, although bikers, hikers, and joggers could pass through untaxed. Big Cottonwood Canyon retained free access, and one Sunday in September 1993, 16,000 cars were counted streaming into the canyon vividly painted with autumn's pallet. In 1994 the Salt Lake City Council demanded an end to develop-ment in the foothills north and east of the city. Actually, a similar line had been drawn in the mid-1970s but often ignored as expensive homes crept into the preservation zone lying above 5,200 feet. Even the 1990s moratorium did not affect one hundred already-approved lots of varying sizes that would see new residences built from Ensign Peak to below Parley's Canyon. Meanwhile luxury homes lined new roads cut into the hills of Emigration Canyon.29 Both Sandy and Draper also dealt with canyon problems. In Sandy new neighborhoods had virtually closed access to the canyons, requiring hikers to park on busy Wasatch Boulevard and walk along residential streets to reach hiking trails. Draper, too, found hikers, bikers, equestrians, and four-wheel-drive enthusiasts unable to dis-cern between private property under construction and public access to the canyons.30 Meanwhile Salt Lake County joined the Utah Division of Parks and Recreation, various cities, and volunteer organizations in devel-oping a crucial and long-neglected resource, the Jordan River. The completed Jordan River Parkway would line the river the entire length of the valley, featuring bridges, canoe landings, fishing, trails, and parks along the way. The parkway would link with another Salt Lake County plan for a hatch of urban pathways valley-wide, pro- WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 321 viding safe, scenic routes between homes, schools, shopping areas, business centers, and recreation facilities. The commission and plan-ners hoped that the trails, pathways, and river access would help to offset the concrete and asphalt hardening on the valley floor every day.-" As farmland continued to vanish, other things blossomed. Premiere dance companies, symphony, opera, artists, and theater companies continued to draw crowds to the capital city, yet per-forming arts localized throughout the valley, as well. Audiences enjoyed the ninety-member Murray Symphony during the 1980s, and by the 1990s, Arts in the Park programs featured the Murray Symphonic Band, the Murray Symphony Summer Pops, and the city's own Ballet Centre. Sandy embraced annual performances of The Nutcracker by the Mountain West Ballet which premiered at Mt. Jordan Middle School in December 1985. In addition, open houses featured local artists, a symphony orchestra, and choral programs. By 1993 the West Valley Symphony brought its ninety-five musicians to the newly-named Abravanel Hall in downtown Salt Lake City, joined by the West Valley Symphonic Chorale. Literally and figuratively clouding this picture of growth and prosperity was its cost to the air, land, and water. A brown haze which became fog in winter tended to hang over the mountain-rimmed val-ley. About two days out of three the air quality registered as "moder-ate," an officially allowable but unhealthy designation. As in the 1920s, pollution resulted primarily from industry, but now secon-darily from the increasing number of vehicles, and thirdly from wood-burning stoves and fireplaces. Regulating wood-burning stoves and fireplaces after World War I1 and then tightening controls on vehicle emissions had decreased the presence of carbon monoxide. The days when its level exceeded the federal standard had dropped to nearly zero from sixty-eight days in 1970; nevertheless, experts predicted that the carbon monoxide level would rise significantly within the next decade. More urgently, Salt Lake County was ruled a "non-attainment" area by the Environmental Protection Agency for flunking four out of the six polluting agents the agency monitored. The valley's 272 days of moderate air pollution ranked well only in comparison with such states as New York which experienced 304 days of moderate pol-lution each year. In short, Salt Lake County residents could breathe deeply and confidently three days each month with Halloween and Thanksgiving thrown in free.'2 Particularly noxious was the valley's level of PM 10, tiny particu-lates that infiltrate the human respiratory system. These small ash and dust particles came primarily from industry-44 percent-including copper mining and oil refineries. Motor vehicle emissions contributed 3 1 percent, wood-burning and other space heating added 21 percent, and other sources including planes and trains added the final 4 percent." Throughout the twentieth century, the number of vehicles on the roads had increased; nevertheless, Salt Lake County voters resisted repeated proposals to build a light rail system running the length of the valley, including a 1993 defeat of a proposed quarter-cent tax increase. In response, the Wasatch Front Regional Council comprised of elected officials preserved the light rail plan but shelved the tax and looked at other option^.'^ The Salt Lake County Commission publicly opposed calling any election to raise or divert taxes for a light rail. In fact, the commis-sion hired its own lobbyist to secure federal funding for improved roads and freeways without entanglement with light rail dollars. By 1995 opponents of the light rail system insisted on voter ini-tiatives to enforce their point; they stressed that the commitment of a Republican Congress to balancing the federal budget would likely reduce projects in the states-and Salt Lake County voters had rejected the proposal while voters elsewhere in the nation wanted transportation aid. If the light rail came, its opponents feared getting stuck either with the bill or an unfinished project." Undaunted, the Utah Transit Authority continued to promote a light rail intertwined with a plan to improve Interstate 15. It went after federal funding with new fervor once the Olympic bid came. In August 1995, the "Utah Transit Authority won the first unexpected gold of the 2002 Winter Olympics," the Deseret News reported, with a WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 323 The air pollution problem grew increasingly serious in Salt Lake County as industry, traffic, and woodburning stoves thickened the haze created by the val-ley contours, as shown by this inversion fog of December 1990. (Deseret News) federal agreement to pay "a whopping $240 million" for a light rail system running from Sandy to downtown Salt Lake City.36 The action, approved by the Bill Clinton administration after the project appeared dead in Congress, aimed directly at the Olympic experience. "The Winter Olympics in Salt Lake are not just Salt Lake's Olympics," the newspaper quoted Transportation Secretary Federico Pena. "They are the nation's Olympics."" Although the funding would still require the approval of Congress, it would appear within the federal transportation budget, almost guaranteeing its success. Like the prehistoric Utes, and the nineteenth-century Mormons before them, the voters who had rejected the light rail discovered that once the Salt Lake Valley attracted "the world," it often lost the ability to dictate the terms under which it would arrive or stay. Actually, air purity and public transportation represented two of a cluster of concerns around pollution. In the 1994 Environmental Almanac, Salt Lake County tied with New Haven, Connecticut, for fifty-third place among seventy-three metropolitan areas. Each area was ranked by air quality, the number of EPA Superfund sites, the amount of toxic releases, the amount of energy consumed, and the use of public transit in comparison to individual vehicle^.'^ Among polluted states, Utah ranked ninth in 1994. Six chief industrial cul-prits operated in Salt Lake County, including that economic staple, the Kennecott Corp~ration.~~ The Environmental Protection Agency designated several Superfund sites within the county to clean up poisonous tailings and other industrial poisons. In Salt Lake City, these included the Rose Park Sludge Pit left by Amoco Oil Company. This had been pur-chased by the city, capped, and, by 1985, covered with the Rose Park Golf Course, a baseball diamond, tennis court, and soccer field. Four others remained within the capital." Midvale too coped with serious industrial pollution. The EPA oversaw the clean-up of ten million tons of tailings in the Sharon Steel slag pile as well as the two-million-ton Midvale Slag Pile laced with lead, arsenic, and cadmium. By 1993 nearly 20 percent of sur-rounding residences had been cleansed of contaminated dust. Meanwhile the EPA and state officials debated whether to cap or move the tailings. In addition, the EPA threatened to add the old WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 325 Murray Smelter near 5300 South State Street to its priority list as well as Bingham Creek and various Kennecott evaporation ponds." Meanwhile, pressured by the federal government, Kennecott launched its own clean-up effort epitomized by a $1.5 billion project to modernize its smelter, refinery, and concentrator. Not only was the effort expected to reduce pollution, but also to make Kennecott the lowest-cost producer in the world-rather than in the nation-and to save the company as much as 20 cents per pound.42 The Salt Lake Tribune featured the new facility in a front page story in its business section. "The old operation is an eyesore that represents decades of smoky, unhealthy air pollution," the article read, describing its "soot-coated pipes and blackened buildings where a blazing hot, smoking substance known as copper matte is poured into flaming-orange copper anodes.'' The new self-contained facility would reduce the number of furnaces from nine to four and elimi-nate nearly all sulfur-oxide emissions from the smokestacks. In addi-tion, it would provide 85 percent of the energy needed to operate an "ultra-modern, $880 million high-tech smelter" beginning in 1996.43 Another effort to ease the impact of technology on the natural environment was evident in the expansion of the Salt Lake International Airport. By 1993 the airport boasted the greatest increase in the number of passengers served among the fifty largest airports in the nation. Nearly sixteen million passengers moved through the facility each year, and most either began or ended their journeys in Salt Lake County. Yet when the facility expanded between 1992 and 1994, the air-port also created new wetlands for waterfowl whose tenure near the Great Salt Lake far preceded flying machines. In replacing the envi-ronment destroyed by a third runway, the airport designed 1,500 acres of open water, mudflats, marsh, and wet meadow.*' Law required the airport to mitigate the harm caused to natural resources, but in the process came visible respect for the intrinsic value of lives other than human and for the beauty of the natural environment. The number of students remained the education system's great-est pressure valley-wide given the annual "crop" of incoming students provided by the high birthrate; nevertheless, in the mid- 1990s, Utah placed fourth in the nation for SAT scores, tied for eighth place for eighth-grade mathematics proficiency, and tied for tenth place for ACT scores. Yet the state scored forty-fifth for teachers' salaries, forty-ninth for student-administrator ratio, and dead last for student-teacher ratioe4' Also relevant in an urban county stood the 1990 census ranking of Utah as second in the nation with 85 percent of people older than twenty-four achieving a high school diploma while people of color stood at a clear disadvantage. In contrast to the accomplishment in toto, the state's African-Americans ranked thirteenth in the nation, Asian and Pacific Islanders sixteenth, Latinos twenty-fifth, and Native Americans forty-fifth. In the late twentieth century, the inequity present in the valley's public schools was something of an open secret as population shifts and migrations changed the make-up of student bodies valley-wide. Since school boundaries were geographic, neighborhood socioeco-nomics played a major role in parent participation, student readiness, and ultimately in a school's access to fine teachers, supplies, and pro-grams. The disparity was illustrated when Salt Lake City school super-intendent John Bennion took a sabbatical to teach in a poor elemen-tary school in the northwest sector where minority students were by far the majority. In June 1994 he resigned his post to direct a University of Utah effort to improve education for poor urban chil-dren through working with their teachers." In 1995 Californian Darline Robles followed Bennion as super-intendent of the Salt Lake City District, a distinct contrast from her administration of the Montebello Unified School District where 93 percent of the students held minority status. In her first speech to a community group-the Sugar House Kiwanis Club--she stressed the need to educate every child in the district regardless of race, socio-economic level, or background." With the valley's proportionately small minority communities at a numerical economic and educational disadvantage, the most pres-sured schools could be tracked valley-wide by the proportion of minority residents. They represented less than 4 percent of the people living in East Millcreek, Mount Olympus, Cottonwood, Holladay, WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 327 Draper, Riverton, and only slightly more in Sandy and South Jordan. By contrast, minority residents comprised more than 17 percent of South Salt Lake, Midvale, and Salt Lake City-in the capital, living mainly to the west, northwest, or in Central City. West Valley City's neighborhoods were 12.7 percent minority with over 10 percent of Magna, Kearns, and Taylorsville-Bennion comprised of minority res-ident~.~" Other groupings also required a custom-fit within the public schools. Alternative programs appeared in all Salt Lake County dis-tricts to reach students who were at risk to drop out before high school graduation. The largest example was the Salt Lake Community Alternative High School on Second South and Second West streets, which under Principal James Anderson became a mag-net for various programs and by 1995 served 6,416 students annu-ally. Conversations in Russian, Spanish, Czech, Navajo, and Vietnamese mixed in the halls before and after classes in English as a Second Language, taught both days and evenings. Teen parent pro-grams became increasingly important valley-wide, and by 199 1 the Salt Lake Community High School adapted six classrooms to nurs-eries for students' children. On weekday mornings, the halls filled with youthful mothers who typically balanced baby,diaper bag, and bookbag with a toddler or two clinging to their clothing.49 Satellite programs included Oasis on Thirteenth South and State streets and Garfield at approximately Seventeenth East and Seventeenth South streets. The former drew many minority students and the latter a mixture described as "often affluent, often brilliant, and often burned-out." Within these programs, the usual dress stan-dards relaxed, allowing complicated ear and nose rings, black leather, and shaved heads. These classrooms became an unofficial haven for runaways and the newest and saddest social category-"throw-awaysn- who camped at friends' homes or in vehicles, or lived on the streets?' Not only did the districts differ by their position north to south following the out-migration from the capital, but well before 1990 there was a significant contrast from west to east as well. Many schools on the east edge of the valley found their numbers decreas- ing as neighborhoods matured, even as portable classrooms, split ses-sions, and year-round sessions marked the overcrowding to the west. (Year-round sessions also helped to promote learning and to super-vise children in some Central City elementary schools.) Certain east-side schools waived the boundary requirement for students outside their areas if parents could provide transportation. Busing from west to east also ensued in some areas. Higher education keenly felt the ongoing pressure for space and resources. Not only were the children of the post-World War I1 gen-eration still entering college, but many adults were returning for additional or transitional education. Sometimes it seemed as if the entire valley population spent at least some time in the classroom. The Salt Lake Community College at 4600 South Street on Redwood Road played an increasingly important role, renovating the former South High School on State Street at about Seventeenth South into an attractive campus. Between 1986 and 199 1, the col-lege's enrollment increased by 11,630 students, one of the most dra-matic growth patterns anywhere in the nation. As 30,000 students per year filed into both day and night programs, the college won the approval of thirteen accrediting agencies. In 1992 Frank W. Budd was named president of the burgeoning institution, succeeding Orville Carnahan.'l Despite a continuing vocational emphasis, the School of Humanities and Sciences claimed the most growth as many students used the college as a step to entering a four-year institution. Meanwhile vocational training included almost $2 million in con-tract training for more than six hundred local businesses and indus-tries. The Union Pacific Railroad, for instance, offered $5 million to help fund an instructional building to train railroad workers from twenty-two states. The Salt Lake Community College Skills Center concentrated on meeting the needs of people with disabilities or experiencing social, economic, or vocational disadvantages, offering thirty short-term training program^.'^ One and one half centuries after higher education sent down ten-tative roots in the Salt Lake Valley, two valley institutions posted "firsts" in their administrations. In September 1991 Arthur K. Smith became the first non-Mormon and non-Utahn president of the WELCOMITNHGE W ORLD19, 90-1995 329 In the 1990s the transient population became the "homeless," and programs and volunteers reached out. More families were seen among the ranks of mostly white, single men searching for work. Chronic mental illness remained a major factor. University of Utah, and Peggy Stock became the first woman to lead Westminster College-or any college or university in the state since Mary Madeleva led St. Mary of the Wasatch. In addition to educational demands, Salt Lake County coped with the numerous societal problems of a modern society including homelessness, crime, and public health, with mental health becom-ing an increasingly evident demand. In addition, civil liberties battles were fought in the valley, not only due to its metropolitan nature but also because it encompassed the annual legislature and the office of the Utah Affiliate of the American Civil Liberties Union. By 1990 the "hobos" of the 1930s and the "transients" of the 1980s had become the "homeless" population; the evolution of terms depicted not only increasing numbers of itinerate families as well as individuals but also more sympathetic public awareness. A shifting, post-industrial economy, insufficient or inaccessible health care, and untreated mental illness-often self-medicated by alcohol or drugs-all contributed to the growing problem. The bitter, stormy winters of the early 1980s had compelled the Salt Lake City Council and agencies such as Travelers Aid to provide the first transient shelter even as long lines formed for meals or beds outside the Salvation Army Rescue Mission and the St. Vincent de Paul kitchen. By the 1990s, West Valley City and other municipalities joined the effort. By 1992 the Salt Lake City shelter served 8,596 people, 7,363 of whom were single men, an 8 percent increase over the previous year. By 1993 those seeking aid increased by 12 percent, including 2,103 Anglos, 917 African-Americans, 886 Latinos, 234 American Indians, 29 Asians, and 37 listed as By then services had expanded and diversified to include out-reach services by Intermountain Health Care and the Salt Lake Community Services Council. The School With No Name educated a shifting student body of homeless children. Utah Legal Services offered attorney Kay Fox who hung her shingle at the St. Vincent de Paul soup kitchen, aided in 1993 by fifty volunteers from the recently founded Lowell Bennion Community Service Center at the University of Utah. Christian philanthropist Jennie Dudley organized Sunday respites near the Interstate 80 viaduct. With the help of vol-unteers, Dudley offered food for both body and soul." In some respects, population growth worked against the needs of homeless people: rents soared and housing became scarce. By 1994 rents, the vacancy rate was less than 2 percent. More than six thou-sand Salt Lake County families signed waiting lists for available hous-ing. One all-female effort approached the problem directly. Architect Paula Carr, general contractor Vicki Hansen, and Habitat for Humanity vice president Rebecca Phillips joined efforts with a team of volunteers who built a simple home with the help of donated materials and labor? The Salt Lake County Housing Authority also stepped in with HEART (Housing, Employment, and Rehabilitation Training). The Housing Authority facilitated the sale of homes to qualified families. Meanwhile HEART workers learned and applied skills in framing, building, applying sheet rock, painting, wiring, and plumbing. WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 331 While a transient clinic provided basic health care, the need for adequate mental health care remained a challenge. Although private mental health hospitals and programs had mushroomed throughout the valley, they served patients who had insurance or the ability to pay. The underserved included the chronically mentally ill, who had been hospitalized and committed during earlier decades. Once drug therapies became available, few people remained confined; however, the success of drug therapies depended upon consistent usage and supervision. Lacking such treatment, the seriously mentally ill became noticeable within the homeless population for their bizarre, though usually harmless, behavior. Salt Lake County Mental Health services provided day programs and counseling for people with schizophrenia, as well as medical intervention and counseling for those suffering from less visible ill-nesses, such as depression. For several years, the Spanish-Speaking Health and Mental Health Unit not only targeted the Hispanic pop-ulation in providing health care, but also took over a day program for those with chronic mental illness. The mental health system itself was chronically stressed, however, and few beds were available for those who reached a crisis. In 1993 alone, the Salt Lake County Human Service Department contracted for mental health services at a cost of more than $40 million.56 Other difficult social issues debated and litigated nationally came to a head in the Salt Lake Valley, not only drawing national attention but also challenging national law. The question of women's repro-ductive rights provided one example. Pro-choice and pro-life rallies become an annual event on Capitol Hill, and women throughout the intermountain region traveled to Salt Lake City if they needed legal abortions or the infertility procedures and fetal surgeries that had become medically possible but legally controversial. In 1991 the legislature on Capitol Hill passed the Criminal Abortion Law to directly challenge the United States Supreme Court's ruling on Roe v. Wade which legalized abortion early in pregnancy. The Utah law required either a promptly reported incident of rape or incest or a physician's opinion that the pregnancy endangered the life or health of the mother. The Utah Affiliate of the American Civil Liberties Union sued in federal court, postponing the law's enforce- ment. Ultimately the high court upheld Roe v. Wade in essence, but allowed states to place restrictions upon access to abortion, which Utah lawmakers then did." The question of praying in public also became an issue in Salt Lake County, within the Granite School District and at Salt Lake City Council meetings. Both entities were sued by the ACLU and the Society of Separationists for the practice of opening council meet-ings and a variety of school events with prayers which typically were LDS. In the case of prayer at government meetings, the ACLU won in district court, while the city council triumphed before the Utah Supreme Court. The council, however, was directed to make praying accessible to all beliefs and to monitor content. Defining and ruling on acceptable prayers and pray-ers proved impractical to the point of impossible. Meanwhile the United States Supreme Court ruled unconstitutional the prayers given commonly in public schools before assemblies, athletic events, plays, and at graduation exercise^.^^ Homosexual rights became a national issue in the late 1980s and early 1990s. A quiet but longlived community centered in the Salt Lake Valley, organizing such groups as the Gay and Lesbian Coalition, the Gay and Lesbian Youth Group, the Utah Log Cabin Club (for Republicans), and the Gay and Lesbian Utah Democrats. The Stonewall Center, a non-profit agency, provided space for meetings and social activities and coordinated with health, political, and social agencies throughout the valley. This community faced strong opposition in public and private arenas. Despite documented incidents of hate crimes against homo-sexuals, the legislature resisted toughening laws to protect that sector of the population. While certain clergy began performing extra-legal, same-sex marriages, other religions strongly prohibited homosexual relationships, including the LDS faith which enforced its views with excommunication. Meanwhile citizen groups such as the Eagle Forum lobbied the Utah State Board of Education regarding curric-ula in the public schools. The view prevailed that high school text-books and teachers be precluded not only from advocating a homosexual lifestyle, as the board proposed, but also from acknowl- WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 333 edging its existence. This complicated the search for contemporary texts in health, psychology, and history.59 On occasion, the Utah-ACLU also sued the Salt Lake County Jail, the Utah State Penitentiary, and youth detention centers over inhu-mane conditions in the overcrowded corrections system. Generally the ACLU lawsuits resulted in rearranging inmates and setting limits on jail and prison populations. Most significantly, as the result of a major lawsuit, the prison built a mental health unit at the Point of the Mountain and improved its medical and dental care to align with constitutional standard^.^' By 1990 crime and law enforcement preoccupied Salt Lakers as they did other Americans. Certain Salt Lake County crime rates were high compared with both the state and nation. Property crimes occurred at a rate of 74.9 per one thousand residents compared with 50.9 nationally and 53.8 statewide. Violent crimes were higher than in the state as a whole-4.5 per one thousand residents compared with 2.8-but lower than the national rate of 7.3 percent? Civic uneasiness about crime and firearms peaked in late sum-mer 1993 when a gang shooting claimed the life of a teenager outside the Triad Center followed by the unrelated murder of a prime wit-ness. In this climate, Salt Lake City, Murray, and West Valley City adopted ordinances to regulate the sale of guns. Salt Lake City's buy-back program which offered $25 for each gun turned in to the Salt Lake City Police Department took a sur-prising twist when an addict sold five antique guns for $125. Two of the weapons turned out to be single-shot dueling pistols once owned by Brigham Young. Two other pistols were pre-Civil War .36-caliber cap-and-ball revolvers. Etchings on their cylinders depicted great Navy sea battles. The fifth gun was also a cap-and-ball revolver. All five had been stolen recently with other Mormon memorabilia from an exhibit at the Daughters of Utah Pioneers Museum.62 In October the Salt Lake Tribune reported that the pressure on the youth corrections system had become overwhelming. While teenagers of all racial and ethnic backgrounds became involved in gangs, some gangs were identified by race. "The study also shows that Latino, American Indian, Asian and black juveniles are more likely to be locked up than their white counterparts," the report read. "The aJom luads salrua~n!X J!JOU!UI cuo!JTpppU I <;apEuu uaaq a ~ e yslu am -a~o~duroru 8ur~oy(s ~ ~ o 1d66a1 ~x? UIOJJ sqnsaJ JOJJIUI s8u!pug *runasnn sJaauo!d qeln 30 s ~ a l q 4 n ~aqal WOJJ ualols uaaq pey ley2 slols!d 3!lol -srq om dn paulnl ai\?Jp aqL 'slaalls aylgo surlealy la4 03 lloga ue u! un2 lad 5 ~p$a~ ajjolu aurl~edaaa q o d l(lr3 aye? 11"s aql £661 JaquraAoN UI WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1, 990-1995 335 time behind bars, the article continued. These youngsters were often at a disadvantage socioeconomically and less likely to enter treatment programs than white children. Another factor was the sparsity of minority staffers within the juvenile justice system. More than 80 per-cent of the detention staff was white.63 Youthful rowdies who tended to run in groups were not a new law enforcement problem, but both mobility and firepower now made them an urgent one. The Salt Lake Area Gang Project reported 3,184 gang-related crimes ranging from vandalism to homicide in the first eight months of 1993. More than one-third occurred in Salt Lake City-1,381-and another 904 in the unincorporated areas of Salt Lake County. In addition, West Valley City reported 331 gang inci-dents, Sandy tolled 258, South Salt Lake counted 100, Murray cited 8 1, Midvale counted 70, and West Jordan reported 59.@ The seriousness of crimes committed by juveniles was alarming. In the 1990s teenagers were jailed for murder, aggravated assault, and other violent crimes. In fact, juveniles held in detention facilities had an average of 10.3 convictions, indicating a population experienced in lawbreaking6' Teen offenders brought particular problems to the corrections system, not only in imprisoning them but also because punishment could augur future trouble. A harsh environment might impose or reinforce the abuse that statistics suggested was significant in the development of violent people; furthermore, overcrowded facilities exposed troubled youngsters to hardened criminals. The Utah-ACLU's first staff attorney, Kathryn Kendell, concluded in the early 1990s that the youth corrections system teetered on the brink of an irreparable crisis with overcrowding exacerbating every other problem. Kendell found teens sleeping on the floor, sometimes beneath toilets, and doing without classes, programs, and counseling simply because the resources were too limited. The affiliate filed a lawsuit alleging that the Salt Lake County Detention Facility detained teens beyond its capacity during 76 percent of the year 1992." Law enforcers looked for relief. The Oxbow Jail in South Salt Lake was designed to confine rnisdemeanants, while those accused of felonies were jailed in the Metro Jail, and convicted felons returned there or most likely were sent to prison. That meant that sometimes an entire wing with nearly two hundred beds remained vacant at the Oxbow facility while the Metro Jail and detention centers threatened to burst their seams. Understandably, the residents of South Salt Lake City expressed reluctance at adding either youthful offenders or people accused of committing felonies to the jail population. In late 1993, Salt Lake City mayor Deedee Corradini and Salt Lake County sheriff Aaron Kennard agreed that the Oxbow beds should be used temporarily to accommodate youthful offenders. Modifying the jail as a permanent site for youngsters could run as much as $1 million, Kennard said; nevertheless, the sheriff told the Salt Lake Tribune that the inability to lock up wayward youths fueled the problem with gang members and others who knew there was little chance they would be impri~oned.~' Meanwhile the Lone Peak facility for young offenders, completed at the Utah State Penitentiary in 1994, offered some relief, but it too meant moving adult prisoners. Bluffdale residents were similarly con-cerned when the prison administration moved adult inmates to seven buildings at Camp Williams. Prison officials installed an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire and other precautions and assigned inmates to laundry and other chores in exchange for using Utah National Guard buildings.68 An encouraging alternative to the overcrowded law enforcement system gained notice in 1994 when United States Attorney General Janet Reno cited the Youth Works program of the Salt Lake Neighborhood Housing Services as an example of crime prevention. The program, directed by Leticia Medina, hired "at risk" youths in inner-city areas to help build homes within their own neighbor-hoods, to renovate old ones, and to clean up yards for senior citizens. Medina told the Deseret News that 80 percent of the youths who par-ticipated went on to finish high school. That success rate compared well with the 2 percent success rate claimed by detention centers where the stay was an expensive nine months on the average as opposed to four months in the Youth Works program.69 Racial and ethnic diversity among role models in law enforce-ment improved at the highest levels. In 1992 Chief Ruben Ortega became the first Latino to head the Salt Lake City Police Department. In 1993 Japanese American Glenn K. Iwasaki was named to the Third WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 337 District Court in Salt Lake City. That same year saw the appointment of Andrew A. Valdez as a Third District Court juvenile judge. The first Hispanic judge in the court system, Valdez grew up on the west side of Salt Lake City, graduated from the University of Utah Law School, and as a Salt Lake Legal Defender had represented several high-pro-file defendants." Courtroom facilities changed as well. The venerable post office on Main and Fourth South streets was renamed the Frank E. Moss United States Court, housing federal adjudication. Meanwhile the crowded Salt Lake City Police Department, Metro Jail, and a variety of courts cried out for increased efficiency and space. Despite requests for courts near the valley's population locus, a huge $80 mil-lion court complex gained approval for the east side of the block across State Street from the City and County Building. The new facil-ity would consolidate courtroom use and prove convenient for judges and attorneys but require citizens in outlying areas to drive to Salt Lake City to take care of legal concerns. Despite the fears around gang violence and a crowded judicial system, the frequency of bizarre and dramatic crimes diminished markedly after the mid- 1980s as mysteriously as civil unrest had diminished in the nation after the mid- 1970s. Two crimes, however, encapsulated the great fears of the 1990s, confronting cities and nations worldwide. Both involved hostage-taking, terrorism, and explosives. The first happened in homeloving Sandy, the second in Salt Lake City at an event intended, ironically enough, to promote the cause of peace. The armed takeover of the Women's Center at the Alta View Hospital struck at a bedrock value particularly evident in the south valley-the emphasis on large families. In fact, the madness lying beneath a terrifying eighteen-hour siege stemmed from a couple's disagreement over a Sandy woman's fertility. Following the birth of their eighth child, Richard and Karen Worthington had agreed she should have a tuba1 ligation. Richard gave only grudging permission, however, and later the couple objected so strongly that the hospital canceled their bill for both the delivery and the procedure in return for the Worthington's promise not to pursue litigation." Both depression and tirades increased in Richard Worthington's everyday life; he was known in his Sandy neighborhood as the hard-working but short-tempered father of six children (two had died shortly after birth). By fall 199 1, Karen Worthington removed all his guns from the home, but acquiesced to his demands on the afternoon of 20 September and retrieved them. That night Richard Worthington, heavily armed, drove to the Alta View Hospital where he damaged the automobile of Dr. Glade Curtis, who had performed the surgery. Leaving a bomb in a flower bed, he then broke into the Women's Center in search of the doctor. He cornered two nurses, Karla Roth and Susan Woolley, even as the alerted doctor ducked into an office and called police. Worthington then had the nurses round up hostages, including new-borns in plastic cribs. Meanwhile two post-partum mothers grabbed their infants and hid. When Worthington forced the nurses into the parking lot toward his vehicle, the trio encountered Sandy police. Karla Roth seized the barrel of his shotgun, tried to wrest it from him, then ran. He raised a pistol and shot her in the back. He forced Woolley back into the hospital as medical personnel failed to save Roth's life. She left behind a teenage son, her husband, and their baby. Worthington's hostages were forced to sack Curtis's office and to build a barricade as the long night became morning. At one point, he fired a pistol into a telephone that rested beside Christan Downey, in labor with her first child, who would be born a hostage. Another hostage, Adam Cisneros, was ordered to retrieve the homemade bomb from the flowerbed, and its presence kept SWAT teams from West Valley City and Salt Lake City at bay. As hunger and exhaustion wore down both captor and captives, Salt Lake City officers Sergeant Don Bell and Detective Jill Candland overcame telephone line difficulties to talk Worthington into surren-dering, aided by Woolley inside the hospital. For much of the eigh-teen- hour siege, the media surrounded the hospital, allowing valley residents a look at the defeated terrorist. He perched beside his wife on the back bumper of a fire truck, wearing a baseball cap that read: "It's a boy-Alta View Hospital." Worthington later committed sui-cide in prison. WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 339 While the Alta View incident prompted a nationally-aired televi-sion drama, the second incident brought national and presidential awards for courageous and canny police work. Lieutenant Lloyd Prescott of the Salt Lake County Sheriff's Office became a hostage himself within the main branch of the Salt Lake Public Library about 9:30 A.M. on 7 March 1994. Tibetan monks were performing a sand-painting ceremony in the cause of world peace when Clifford Draper leaped onto a table, announced he had a gun and a bomb, and began taking hostages. As the monks and most audience members escaped, word of the gun-man spread across the plaza, and Prescott, a self-described "desk jockey," rushed to the library's second floor. He traded places with the last hostage entering an enclosed room, his service pistol hidden beneath his ~lothing.'~ Draper, the Salt Lake Valley learned later, represented a classic example of a citizen who should not possess a gun. He had purchased it during a local rush on gun stores as the weapon-restricting Brady Bill was debated in Congress. Draper's bizarre behavior had been observed locally when he "stomped out a war dance around his penny-pot while working as a Salvation Army bell ringer."73H is lurk-ing presence outside a supermarket in the Avenues had frightened customers and employees alike. Now he demanded cash, gold and platinum bullion, back pay he believed he had earned in military ser-vice, and a pardon from President Clinton. Morning faded into a tense afternoon. Outside the library, SWAT teams gathered, friends and families of the hostages waited on the City and County Building grounds, and reporters raced between police sources and television cameras. At 2:30 P.M., when Draper pre-pared to have the hostages draw straws to determine their order of death, Prescott acted. As had been the concern in the Worthington incident, he wor-ried that eliminating Draper would result in a "dead man's switch" detonating the bomb; but he concluded that if the hostages lay on the floor, their risks would be reduced. He slowly withdrew his pistol, and when Draper became distracted, yelled, "Sheriff's office!" and "Hit the The hostages dropped and the gunman wheeled toward him. Under coach Greg Marsden, the University of Utah Utes gymnastic team led collegiate meets and produced Olympians such as Melissa Marlowe. Here, Shelly Schaerrer scores the first 9.9 in any event in Utah gymnastics history. Prescott fired five fatal shots, even as fellow officers burst through glass partitions. Minutes later the hostages filed from the building to the relief of onlookers and viewers who were aware that shots had been fired and medical assistance requested-not only for Draper but for officers who also suffered cuts while breaking into the room. Even as Salt Lake County dealt with growth and confronted the social challenges of the late twentieth century, play became an increasingly dominant aspect of valley life. Sports not only filled leisure hours, but also drew positive attention to the valley and enlivened the economy. Led by hard-driving and controversial coach Greg Marsden, the University of Utah's Ute gymnasts became a premiere team nationally and drew enthusiastic audiences season after season to the Huntsman Center. Winning their first national championship in 198 1, the Ute program was among the first to recruit nationally and to engage nutri- WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 34 1 tionists, sports psychologists, and weight trainers in developing out-standing gymnastic talent.75 The program's success was evident through such excellent gymnasts as Olympian Melissa Marlowe. Megan McCunniff Marsden, twice an all-around national cham-pion (who also married the coach), became a paid assistant coach and a strong influence on the team. By the 1990s, Ute gymnasts Suzanne Metz, Missy Wells-Taylor, Candace Wooley, and Amy Trepanier were among the team leaders. In April 1995 the Utes claimed their ninth national trophy. In 1994 Larry Miller disappointed hockey fans by selling the Salt Lake Golden Eagles for close to $5 million. The organization had lost $3.6 million in five years because attendance at games did not sup-port costs; nevertheless, in their final game in April 1994, the Golden Eagles triumphed before 14,144 fans.76 That game was played not in the Salt Palace but in a bluish arena that represented one of Miller's newest projects. The 20,000-seat Delta Center dominated the block between Third and Fourth West and First and Second South streets, drawing crowds to a variety of sporting and recreational events. Immediately the arena became the new home of the Utah Jazz which had become a powerful force in the National Basketball Association. Quickly the Delta Center hosted an NBA All-Star game. The direct economic benefit the Jazz brought to the Salt Lake Valley exceeded $10 million by the 1990s, a considerable increase over the $1 million during its initial years. In the early 1990s, the team racked up division titles and played repeatedly in the conference championship playoff^.'^ During the 1994-95 season, Jazz players achieved important milestones: John Stockton broke the all-time record for assists; Karl Malone and Tom Chambers (the latter a for-mer star for the University of Utah team) each exceeded 20,000 total career points. Even before the Olympics came to the valley, Malone and Stockton played on the United States "Dream Team" in 1994 and were selected again for 1996. Even though sporting events migrated to the Delta Center, the Salt Lake County Commission and other government officials deemed the Salt Palace inadequate to accommodate the valley's con-ventions. The familiar drum of the Acord Arena and the remainder Karl Malone and other players in the NBA's Utah Jazz ball club found a new home in the Delta Center, built by team owner and automobile dealer Larry Miller. (Gary McKellar-Deseret News) of the building became rubble at the end of 1993, and Salt Lake City, Salt Lake County, and the State of Utah united to build a third Salt Palace, this one at a cost of $70 million dollars. WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1 995 343 Salt Lake County donated $3 million to the Franklin Quest baseball field, which replaced Derks Field. The Triple-A Salt Lake Buzz attracted 14,611 fans to the first game played in the new stadium in April 1994 and went on to set a minor league attendance record that year. (Kristian Jacobsen- Deseret News) Meanwhile the Derks Field baseball stadium was determined to be inadequate and unsafe. As with the Salt Palace, renovation was ruled more expensive and less satisfying than new construction, and the familiar arena faced the wrecking ball. For a time, Mayor Corradini worked to place a new baseball field downtown, but ulti-mately the Franklin Quest Field replaced Derks on the same site. Salt Lake County donated $3 million to the new baseball stadium in return for tickets to nonbaseball events being sold through the county-run ArtTix system and use of the $17.5 million facility at cost whenever it was available. Salt Lake City provided $10.2 million and the state of Utah $1.8 million; Franklin Quest, a company that sold organizational planners and provided consulting, pledged $1.4 mil-lion of the $3 million raised from private sources, stipulating that its name designate the new field.78 Despite controversies over location, name, and costs, the innova-tive and attractive park opened in April 1994. Ceremony and excite-ment prevailed for 14,611 fans though the Triple-A Salt Lake Buzz lost their first game 7-1 to the Edmonton Trappers. Undaunted, the team set a minor league attendance record in its first year of play, proving the popularity of both the sport and the new baseball field. County residents not only enjoyed watching sports, however, but participating in them, and from an early age. By the mid-1990s, Salt Lake County's recreation program sponsored more than 13,000 boys and girls in basketball, while girls' softball and tee ball, soccer for both youth and adults, volleyball, tennis, flag football, and track and field rounded out the offerings. The county operated two dozen neighborhood parks, thirteen community parks, and eight regional parks in addition to a dozen recreation centers. New swimming pools opened in West Jordan and Magna and county golf courses in Riverton and Holladay. Altogether the county spent about $13 million per year on recreation, allocating $9.6 million to sports and leisure programs and $5 13,000 to operate the Historic Wheeler Farm with the rest going to golf courses. Participant fees covered the remaining costs." Despite so many recreational options, visitors to the Salt Lake Valley demanded one delight that most residents had all but forgot-ten. "I want to see the Great Salt Lake," one tourist demanded. "And don't tell me I don't!"80 A century had passed since valley residents had shed their Victorian broadcloth and corsets for bathing costumes or had sighted buffalo from the decks of a luxury steamship. Decades had disap-peared since families had loaded picnic baskets and swimwear onto an open-air train for a day on the beach. Yet the thousands of visitors flocking to a makeshift visitors' center on the south shore represented every state in the nation and many foreign countries. Catching their first glimpse of the lake as they circled the Salt Lake International Airport, they were shocked once they landed to find that most resi-dents and civic boosters regarded the lake with indifference, if not embarras~ment.~~ True, piers, marinas, and breakwaters lined Black Rock Beach, and members of the Great Salt Lake Yacht Club entered games and races year-round since the salty water never froze. While these struc-tures served a devoted group of boaters, the marinas also prevented the lake's natural current from scouring out the shoreline near Saltair. WELCOMINTHGE WORLD1,9 90-1995 345 The detritus in that corner not only reduced the slope of the beach but also added a noxious odor and an influx of brine flies.82 Salt Lake County officials joined other Olympic boosters in plan-ning ways to make the lake accessible and attractive to visitors and residents alike. Meanwhile naturalists and ecologists recognized the lake as an important resting site for many of the continent's species of shorebirds. In August 1992 dignitaries gathered to make it part of the Western Hemispheric Shorebird Reserve Network.83 In pondering how to make the Great Salt Lake an attractive part of the burgeoning plans for the Winter Olympics, valley boosters con-fronted the wilful mystique of the valley's most distinctive feature. Virtually every aspect of valley life was re-visioned as the Olympic clock ticked almost audibly toward 2002. Almost anything, it seemed, could suddenly change. The valley's two largest cities, for instance, bat-tled toe to toe for the ice skating rink that would host the Olympic fig-ure skating event. The upstart West Valley City triumphed over the capital in August 1995, jarring more than a century's tradition for placing key attractions in downtown Salt Lake City. In the process of winning the Olympic venue, Mayor Gerald Wright and West Valley City manager John Patterson also snared the Utah Grizzlies hockey team, the defending International Hockey League champions from Denver. Meanwhile Mayor Corradini settled for a $3 million practice ice sheet, rather than an ice arena at the Utah State Fairpark, and a smaller rink at the Steiner Aquatic Center near the University of Utah.84 Liquor laws were redrawn to allow restaurants and hotels to serve metered alcoholic drinks rather than requiring patrons to buy or tote liquor in mini-bottles. After one wealthy skier found his prestigious credit card worthless at a State Liquor Store and no cash in his pock-ets, a Republican senator introduced legislation to allow purchase by credit card or check. While the change to metered drinks had been approved by both LDS and state officials as a means of reducing liquor consumption, neither entity resisted the second law.85 The gold associated with the Olympics clearly was not all in the medals athletes would win. A portion of the Salt Lake County sales tax was designated to fund the event even as the Salt Lake Olympic Bid Committee budgeted a theoretical $797.8 million dollars between 1996 and 2002. Less than 3 percent would be spent each year until the year 2000 with 62 percent earmarked for 2002. The committee assured residents that if revenues from the sale of television rights and corporate sponsorships were not forthcoming by June 1999, the expenditures could be reduced. That fear drowned in a deluge of dol-lars, however, when in August 1995, NBC purchased broadcast rights for $545 million, far exceeding the $400 million budgeted? As Salt Lake County's sesquicentennial year and the centennial anniversary of statehood approached, the valley reached an interest-ing and critical phase of its history. Just as the Great Salt Lake cap-tured the mountains, sky, and human inventions in its shiny surface on a clear day, the Salt Lake Valley reflected many of the nation's trends, conflicts, devotions, and triumphs. Yet its history was as unique as the salty lake and bent the image of the larger society to suit its own characteristics. For one and one half centuries since settlement, Mormonism had drawn residents and shaped their lives once they arrived. Its emigra-tion program had accounted for Great Salt Lake City's rapid growth and the settlements that branched valley-wide. In the late twentieth century, its missionary program boosted the numbers of bilingual people within the valley. Religious affiliation sometimes offered indi-viduals with racial or ethnic minority status an entrance into the mainstream society. Conversely, non-membership distanced people otherwise in the American mainstream and tended to isolate indi-viduals and families who were Racial, ethnic, and religious diversity had played a vivid and important role historically which projected strongly into the future. Hunters of prehistoric mammals, gatherers of the pinon nut, and mounted merchants/warriors all predated settlement. Peoples from many lands had settled the valley, planted farms, built railroads and industries, and enlivened the cultural heritage. They varied from the African-Americans who drove some of the first pioneer wagons, the Chinese who lowered one another in baskets to lay rail in Bingham Canyon, and the international community in Fort Union, to the post-war waves of Latinos, Southeast Asians, and Pacific Islanders. Here innovation flourished from the time electric lights illumi- WELCOMITNHEG W ORLD19, 90-1995 347 nated the "Great White Way" down Main Street to the moment an artificial heart began beating in a human chest. Conservatism thrived as well. Here residents rushed to prove their patriotism in each of the nation's great wars; here powerful men suffered their greatest politi-cal defeat in the late nineteenth century and achieved their greatest political triumph in the twentieth, both over the proper role of women in The decision to draw the Winter Olympics to the Salt Lake Valley was, perhaps, as characteristic of Brigham Young in his more expan-sive and less embattled moods as of the public officials in the late twentieth century. Since settlement, civic leaders had consistently worked at attracting favorable attention, enterprise, and residents even as they deliberated how to prevent worldly trends from dimin-ishing their preferred way of life. Now as the decade ended and the Olympic games loomed, those tensions were illuminated, even in small ways. Brigham's statue, for instance, had stood in the intersection of South Temple and Main streets for a century. In the increasing traffic near the twentieth cen-tury's end, Brigham was efficiently lifted from his pedestal by a crane and put into storage until a new perch could be arranged on a mid-block island a few yards to the north. From his new post, the founder of what had become an expan-sive metropolitan county surveyed the approach of a new century filled with new residents and numerous visitors, without standing in the way. 1. Salt Lake Tribune, 29 October 1993. 2. "Population Profiles of Utah Counties, Mountain States, and United States: 1990," chart (Logan: Population Research Laboratory, Department of Sociology, Social Work and Anthropology, Utah State University, 1994). 3. A term coined and applied to Salt Lake City in the 1960s by historian Gunthar Barth. 4. Deseret News, 10 April 1994. For samples of the extensive Bonneville Pacific coverage, see Deseret News, 23 April 1994; Salt Lake Tribune, 19 September 1993, 1 July 1995, 1 May 1994; and Lynn Packer, "Goin' for Broke," Private Eye, 20 July 1995. 5. Statistics provided by Utah Department of Employment Security. For most recent data, see Richard W. Newman and Kris Beckstead, "Annual Report of Labor Market Information, 1994," Utah Department of Employment Security, 1995. 6. Fact sheet provided by Salt Lake County Aging Services, 1995; copy in possession of the author. 7. Population Profiles. 8. Ibid. 9. Salt Lake Tribune, 2 April 1994,3 December 1995. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid. The per capita personal income in Salt Lake County was $15,399 in 1990, compared to $14,034 in Utah and $18,639 in the United States. 12. Salt Lake Tribune, 25 April 1994; Deseret News, 25 April 1994. 13. Salt Lake Tribune, 17 February 1994. 14. Ibid., 30 January 1994. 15. Ibid. 16. Deseret News, 1 February 1995. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid. Salt Lake Tribune, 25 January 1994. 19. Deseret News, 1 February 1995. 20. Salt Lake Tribune, 25 January 1994. 2 1. Deseret News, 22 January 1995. 22. Interview with David Marshall, 25 July 1995. 23. Deseret News, 3 March 1994, Salt Lake Tribune, 7 February 1994,31 December 1994. 24. Salt Lake Tribune, 29 March, 1995. 25. Ibid., 29 August 1993. 26. Ibid., 29 March 1995. 27. Ibid. 28. Deseret News, 13 April 1994, Salt Lake Tribune, 2 January 1994. 29. Salt Lake Tribune, 9 January 1994, 19 November 1994. 30. Deseret News, 16 May 1994. 3 1. Salt Lake Tribune, 23 November 1993, and Deseret News, 24 March 1994. 32. Salt Lake Tribune, 10 December 1993,26 January 1992,30 January 1992. 33. Ibid. WELCOMITNHEG W ORLD19, 90-1995 349 34. Salt Lake Tribune, 27 June 1993,23 September 1993,24 September 1993. 35. Marshall, interview. 36. Deseret News, 2 August 1995. 37. Ibid. 38. Salt Lake Tribune, 24 November 1993. 39. Deseret News, 19 April 1994. Polluters named in Salt Lake County included Hercules plants in Magna and Salt Lake City, Chevron USA and Sales in Salt Lake City, and Fashion Cabinet in West Jordan. 40. Ibid. Remaining were the Petrochem RecyclingIEkotek Incorporated on north Chicago Street; the Utah PowerIAmerican Barrel site at Sixth West and South Temple streets; the Portland Cement site at 10000 Redwood Road; and the Wasatch Chemical Corporation site at 1987 South Seventh West Street. 4 1. Deseret News, 19 January 1994,2 1 November 1993. 42. Deseret News, 30 March 1994, Salt Lake Tribune, 1 April 1994, 4 November 1993,25 February 1994. 43. Salt Lake Tribune, 16 April 1995, 1 May 1994. 44. Centerline (Salt Lake City Airport Authority newsletter), September 1994. 45. Salt Lake Tribune, 10 September 1993. 46. Deseret News, 5 June 1994. 47. Salt Lake Tribune, 9 April 1995. 48. Ibid., 20 March 1994. 49. Linda Sillitoe, "The James Principal," Utah Holiday, February 199 1, 24. Also annual statistical reports prepared for the State Office of Education, 1990-95; copies in possession of the author. 50. Ibid. 5 1. Salt Lake Community College public relations material, 1994-95; pamphlets and reports in possession of the author. 52. Ibid. 53. Salt Lake Tribune, 22 December 1993. 54. Ibid., 31 January 1994,27 February 1994, 16 December 1993. 55. Salt Lake Tribune, 22 December 1993, Deseret News, 10 May 1994. 56. Chris Segura, "Annual Report," Salt Lake County Human S e ~ c e s , 1993, 1. 57. Linda Sillitoe, Friendly Fire: The ACLU in Utah (Salt Lake City: Signature Books, 1996). 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid. 60. Ibid. 6 1. Population Profiles. 62. Salt Lake Tribune, 25 November 1993. 63. Ibid. 64. Ibid., 16 September 1993. 65. Ibid. 66. Sillitoe, Friendly Fire. 67. Salt Lake Tribune, 10 November 1993. 68. Ibid. 69. Deseret News, 27 April 1994. 70. Salt Lake Tribune, 29 June 1993. 71. Deseret News, 19 March 1992. This special section details the siege briefly described here. 72. Salt Lake Tribune, 8 March 1994. 73. Ibid. 74. Ibid. 75. Deseret News, 18 April 1994. 76. Salt Lake Tribune, 11 March 1994, and Deseret News, 7 April 1994. 77. Dave Blackwell, "Utah Jazz," Utah History Encyclopedia, Allan Kent Powell, ed. (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1994), 591-92. 78. Salt Lake Tribune, 2 1 July 1993, Deseret News, 10 April 1994. 79. Sports and Recreation, Salt Lake County Parks and Recreation, 1995. 80. David Hampshire, "The Great Salt Lake, Forlorn and Forgotten," Utah Holiday, September 1992,24. 8 1. Ibid, 24-27. 82. Ibid. 83. Ella Dibble Sorensen, "Birds of a Feather," Utah Holiday, September 1992,28-29. 84. Salt Lake Tribune, 26 July 1995. 85. Interview with Utah senator David L. Buhler, 27 July 1995. 86. Deseret News, 7 August 1995. 87. Phyllis Barber, "Culture Shock," Utah Holiday, November 198 1, 3 1-40. 88. In late 1994, Gordon B. Hinckley, who as an apostle oversaw the anti-ERA lobby, then as a counselor administrated LDS church affairs dur-ing the 1980s and early 1990s, became church president.