Walking From Omaha...

Edward Peterson

Walking From Omaha, NE to Ogden, UT (1880)

The historical account of my great grandfather, Edward Peterson's, walk across the plains of America was originally contributed to family archives by Kathlyno · Aug 10, 2013, 8:56 PM · and can be found at the FamilySearch.org website.

'A Miracle while walking 1000 miles from Omaha, Nebraska to Ogden, Utah'  [By Carolyn Deborah Murray Swiss, 2 July 2012, with excerpts from Charles C. Sjostrom’s Life History.] 

Edward Peterson was born in Sweden in 1862. His parents and five sisters were taught the gospel by missionaries and were baptized in Sweden. Edward was 14 when he was baptized in 1876. 

The entire family set a goal of coming to Zion and began working and saving together to make this a reality. In 1880, “when they put all their money together, they had enough for three tickets to Omaha and $14 between them.” Edward, Edward’s father, Johannes Pehrson (aka John Peterson), and Edward’s brother-in-law, August Sjostrom, came first. They would settle in Utah, work and send money back, so the rest of the family could immigrate. 

“They put a few clothes in a bundle and bid farewell to their families and friends,” sailing from Sweden the last day of March 1880 with a group of Saints. After a 6-week voyage, they landed in New York City in May 1880. Edward had just turned 18. His father was 51 and August Sjostrom was 31. 

“They wrote letters to their families and told of their good trip, also the new conditions they encountered in the land of the free. They could not understand a word spoken on the streets. Soon they boarded the train to Omaha, the end of their tickets.”

The trains in 1880 were not very fast and it was almost a week before they arrived in Omaha in the middle of May. They arrived “with empty purses but good health and strong faith to start the journey of over one thousand miles. With bundles on their backs, they walked to Utah. The roads were not safe to follow as there were creeks and rivers that had no bridges. If there were any side roads, there were no signs to show them which way to go. There were very few houses or settlements along the way, so they decided to follow the railroad tracks and count the ties. 

'...walked on each side of the track
looking for food.'

“Getting something to eat was their biggest trouble. They walked one in the middle and one on each side of the railroad track with their eyes glued on the ground before them, looking for a crust of bread or anything to eat that the travelers on the train had cast out the windows. For the first two days of walking they did not find anything, so each night they lay down on the ground, rolled up in a blanket, with empty stomachs. Their faith and prayers grew stronger with hopes of blessings on each coming day. Their prayers were not in vain as they started walking at daylight the next morning. They had not walked more than ten minutes when they found a package rolled in newspaper. To their surprise it contained several days’ rations of bread, meat, and cookies. They were thankful and they bowed their heads in prayer and thanksgiving to God for this food. After feasting by a little creek, with thankful and happy hearts, they walked on their way. 

"Several days later they had eaten all their food “and for two days could not find a thing to eat. They began to feel quite faint from hunger when they found part of a loaf of bread. It must have been there for about six weeks because they had to use rocks to break it. It still tasted good to them. In the next few days they found a little more and some partly decayed apples. Because they had not found any water that day, the moisture in the apples was very welcome. 

"A few weeks later their condition was dire. They’d been without food and water for several days, were very weak, and had no strength for even one more step. They knew that without divine intervention they would die. They knelt down in the sagebrush and each took a turn being voice for the prayer, praying like they’d never prayed before, pleading with the Lord to bless them with food and water so they’d live and be able to continue their journey. 

"When they finished praying, they all stood. They had a little more energy, so they continued on their way. Up ahead of them was a small knoll. They climbed it and when they got to the top, they saw a little dugout cabin down in the middle of a tiny valley. Smoke curled up from the chimney. They staggered down the hill to the cabin where they found a woman and her baby. Her husband was away and she didn’t have much to share with the starving travelers, but what she had she freely gave. Edward, his father Johannes, and August, ate and rested and stayed awhile with her. When they left, they also had some food which the woman kindly gave to them.

'...nothing except sagebrush, desert and more sagebrush.'

"They went up the other side of the small valley, marveling, and thanking the Lord for His goodness to them, knowing that without finding this small cabin, and without the woman’s generosity, they would have been dead. They reached the top of the knoll and turned back to say “good bye” to the place of their miracle. But when they looked, the cabin was gone!

Nothing was where they had just come from - nothing except sagebrush, desert and more sagebrush.  Again, they dropped to their knees as they thanked the Lord for His goodness and mercy in saving their lives.

"They NEVER forgot this miracle. Many, many times they shared this story with their children and admonished them to always remember to pray, as God does hear and He does answer our prayers!"

Edward Peterson

      

Prayer Answered With A Wedding Cake ...

1950 - Experience about faith and prayer that my grandmother, Grace Peterson Johnson had when her son, Carl was on his mission. (Excerpt from Arlene Younker’s History, given to Carolyn Deborah Murray Swiss, 29 October 2010.)

When I was growing up in North Logan, cake decorating was a rare skill, and even more rare was anyone who could afford to pay to have it done.

Elder Carl G. Johnson, front,

Stockholm, Sweden Mission

But when a girl in town got married, Sister Glenna Crookston would always decorate the wedding cake. It was her gift to everyone who was a member of the girls chorus, which she directed, and the chorus included practically every girl in town.

When Don and I were engaged, my mother was not sure that she could bake the cake, so we asked around about who we might hire to do it. An older Peterson couple [actually Gus Johnson & his wife Grace Lillian Peterson] had just moved into North Logan. They had previously owned a bakery and said they would be glad to do it.

Grace hesitated to give us a price up front because she wouldn't know the actual cost of the cake until she had measured and weighed the nuts, fruits, etc. We had very little money, so cost was a major concern for us.

When Don and I went to get the cake, I took all the money that I had available with me. I thought she would probably ask at least $10, which was more than I had, so I decided to ask if I could pay her what I had with me and then go to the bank for the rest of it out of my savings account.

When she said, “Would $5 be too much?,” I knew the huge cake was worth far more than that and was so relieved that I emptied all the money I had in my purse out on the counter. It was $6.85. Sister Peterson was happy with that amount.

Sister Crookston decorated it and it was a beautiful cake. We were married Christmas Day, 1950. Shortly after our wedding, we moved away and were gone for nine years.

Some time later, we moved back to North Logan and had lived there for several years when we become acquainted with Carl and Alva Johnson.

One evening I went to the Temple to pick up our son, Norman, and some others who had gone to do baptisms for the dead. As I waited in the temple entrance, Carl and Alva Johnson and an elderly lady came out. When they introduced her as Carl’s mother, Grace, she told me that she was the one who had baked my wedding cake and asked if I knew the whole story about that cake.

At the time of our wedding in 1950, Carl had recently gone on a mission to the Northern States, waiting for his passport to Sweden.  He had written that it was bitter cold and that he really needed some warm underwear. Grace had no money and said that she knelt by her bed that night and asked the Lord to provide a way for her to earn some money for her son's needs.

The very next day, Mom and I came to ask about the cake. After I had paid her she bought three pair of long winter underwear and went to the post office to send them to her missionary son. The total cost of the underwear and the postage was exactly $6.85.

Research For Displaced Persons...

Early in 2012, I had an extremely rewarding experience while trying to help a friend, Anne, search for ancestry documentation on her ancestors who were Polish/Jewish immigrants in Europe during WW II.  I really had no previous experience searching for specific information on her family's Jewish surnames, but last winter I had been 'scooting' around on the FamilySearch.org website to familiarize myself with new 'links and features' buttons and taught myself a few interesting things about Polish displaced persons research.  I pulled out my notes, wondering if they would help her. I remembered watching several training videos at the 'LEARN/Research Courses' tab on FamilySearch and realized the course materials included discussions on the type of genealogy research skills Anne needed to know.

Although there was some hesitation on my part to offer assistance with her Polish/Jewish research, I realized that my own paternal Polish/Prussian ancestry lead my genealogy research down similar paths as hers. I also realized that my learning curve included tools that would be of great benefit to her, such as, 1) researching and translating Polish surnames, 2) accessing Displaced Persons websites and 3) becoming familiar with Jewish/Polish genealogical information found on the FamilySearch website.  So I decided to speak up.

I let Anne know about one specific training course in particular, entitled Polish Displaced Persons, taught by Cecile Wendt Jensen, MA, CG, that I knew would spark her interest. Toward the end of the course, Ms Jensen even provides the viewer with her own personal contact information on her website: Michigan Polonia, in case viewers need additional research assistance directly from her.

In addition, I shared information on the Polish Genealogical Society of America website which provides access to over 30 additional web links along with email addresses of several outstanding Polish genealogy research organizations and professional researchers. As we spoke together,  I came to place greater value on the Polish ancestry research tools and techniques I had learned last year and, although I did not consider myself a polished or professional research by any stretch of the imagination, I couldn't stop myself from sharing this wealth of information with my friend.

Thinking back over this experience, and pondering the importance of genealogical research from a global perspective, I have come to understand three very important things.  First, I more clearly understood Anne's need to openly address the very solemn issue of WW II displacement and loss of her loved ones. Secondly, I learned that I was providing her with expanded choices of free, research courses she could use that would improve her own intermediate/advanced Polish research skills. Third, I learned that the more time I spent with Anne at the computer, showing her how to move freely from one site to another, the more confidence she was developing in the FamilySearch.org website as a reliable source of research information.

I am deeply grateful to the worldwide family of volunteers and webmasters who have worked tirelessly to provide user-friendly, worldwide access to a myriad of genealogical research links at FamilySearch.org that just might lead my friend, myself and hosts of others directly to the roots of our European story.

If Not From Me...

Journal Entry Wednesday, October 22, 2014:

In early 1999, I moved my family to Titusville, FL., a beautiful little city nestled gently against the white sands of Playalinda Beach at the Canaveral National Seashore/National Park. We also lived within a few miles of my brother, Gus, and his precious family: his wife, Cindy and their children, Melissa, Christopher, Cameron and little September. We all became fast friends and Cindy and I quickly became confidantes of the dearest nature.

I became very active in the women's auxiliary of my church and was soon asked to partner our group of about 30 women with several smaller organizations in Brevard County, FL to produce useful humanitarian aid items for worldwide distribution.

Through our joint discussions, we decided to focus on the needs of mothers and children who were experiencing immediate family crisis. This was an issue we all knew well and felt we could relate to others' emergencies and tight budgets if we kept our projects simple.

We met often in small splinter groups and came from all walks of life.  We represented several different religions, ethnic groups, status and age levels. We were made up of elderly mother/daughter teams as well as very young mother/daughter teams.  

Within my own immediate family, I enjoyed working with my mother, my two youngest teenage daughters, Julie and Elizabeth; two precious nieces and most particularly, Cindy, my sister-in-law, dear, dear friend and true sister in Christ. Some among us were widowed, some single, others divorced, or married.  We meant everything to each other.

The two eldest women in our group were the only ones experienced enough with a tiny crochet needle and very fine thread to crochet over 1500 three inch wide rows of fine needlework into two 36" long leprosy bandages. We loved them for working with us and teaching us what skill, patience and attention to detail could accomplish.

One young mother was only 15 and she brought her newborn daughter to every work session. She gravitated quickly to the two great grandmothers making the bandages.  She loved sitting next to them with her tiny daughter to laugh and talk.   All three agreed to let the baby hold the soft ball of crochet thread so in years to come she could say she had been instrumental in sending bandages to India. Three generations of females making memories together. It was priceless to watch!

Yep, we were a real Heinz 57 variety of friends, we were.  A real force of nature.  By winter of 2000, however, my family made preparations to move away from the area, as did several others in our group. Shortly after I left, three women in our group passed away of extended illness and yet a few faithful leaders maintained a commitment to the local women's shelter to deliver a few additional hand-tied quilts every month for the next 12 months. 

For about a year and a half, though, we were on fire. I share these thoughts and the record of our 127 completed projects not so much because we changed the world, but because we were so focused on our combined efforts of service to others that we all let down our guard and allowed ourselves to be changed and softened and deepened by each other.  We didn't see it coming...we didn't know it was happening...we didn't plan for it to happen - We didn't know it was happening, we didn't plan for it to happen - it just happened.

I share these thoughts, also, in honor my dear female friends and family members - over 50 'Concerned Women of Brevard County, FL' who influenced me to become more caring, more gentle and more protective toward a worldwide sisterhood of women than I had previously thought I could be.


Our Project Title:  'If not from me, then from whom?'
Sep 1999 - 32 tied &/or quilted Queen, Twin & Crib size quilts sent to families at Red Cross flood disaster sites in Kentucky, Georgia and South Carolina, USA

Oct 1999 - 9 polar fleece blankets w/blanket stitch edges sent to refugees of the North Russian and Balkan states

Nov 1999 - 60 newborn baby kits (gallon size zip/bag with 3 pre-folded cloth diapers, 1 receiving blanket, 1 pr heavy newborn socks, 2 diaper pins, 1 newborn gown and 1 non-perfumed mini-soap) sent to a Refugee Camp in the outskirts of Khartuom, Sudan

Dec 1999 - 2 Crocheted Leprosy Bandages (#10 100% cotton mercerized crochet thread, #3 needle, 3" X 36" finished dimensions) sent to a Leper Clinic/Hospital in Calcutta, India

Jan 2000 - 8 School Supply Kits (15" X 18" durable fabric/drawstring bag containing: 91/2" X 12" size blackboard, eraser, chalk, bx of 12 pencils, 5 pencil sharpeners, 240 sheets paper, blunt-nose scissors) sent to a school for HIV+ orphans in San Pedro, Paraguay

Sep 2000 - 16 twin size tied quilts taken to the Domestic Violence Women's Shelter in Brevard County, FL, USA

"And they who had nothing but their nakedness wept and said to the  

women bringing coverings for the children: "Where have you been?" 

Just So Stories, by Rudyard Kipling

Giving The Best...

In February of 2006, while Joe and I were in Manila, Philippines, our Bishop back home in West Valley City, UT sent us the following story about Mother Theresa. Bishop Barker told us that this story reminded him of Joe and the mudslide victims of Leyte, Philippines that he had helped earlier in the month.  He said it made him think of Joe's concept of what it means to extend charity, the pure love of Christ, to others. Bishop Barker wrote:

"I remember a story that occurred in the life of Mother Teresa that has always affected me. She told about once when she was at her order's headquarters, she received word of a Hindu family who had nothing to eat, and had not eaten for several days. She went to a large pot of steaming rice and dipped out a large pail of it. She took it with one of her underlings to the home of the Hindu family.

"When they knocked at the door of the dirty shack, a woman and a large number of children were wide-eyed and giddy at the food the guests were carrying. Mother Teresa put the pail of rice on the table where the woman poured it out on a large plate. As the nuns watched, the woman carefully divided the rice into two equal portions.

"She explained that she had a Muslim neighbor family that was in the same condition as her family and she was going to share the rice with them. Muslims and Hindus in India and Pakistan are avowed enemies, and the Hindu woman's family had been hungry for many days, but none of that mattered to this lady. She wanted to give half to her neighbor because she felt it was the right thing to do.

"When the nuns walked back to their convent, Mother Teresa's companion wanted to go get more rice and take it to the Hindu woman who had been so generous with her neighbor. Mother Teresa refused. She said that to do so would cheapen the sacrifice the Hindu woman had made for her neighbor. She said they could take her more rice another time, but not now. 

"Mother Teresa said then, and on many other occasions, that when she needed something to alleviate the suffering of the poor, she would go to poor people first to gather the items she needed. She said that rich people, when asked for a donation, would either give a little bit of money or would give their old clothes, leftover food, etc.  But the poor would almost always give a big portion of whatever they had. 

"They would give their new shoes and clothes, not the rags that were given by the rich. They would give of their most prized possessions, not the surplus or outdated stuff the rich would always give. They would give of their best food, that they were about to eat, and not leftover or outdated food like the wealthy. She said the poor were like that because they were much closer to God than the rich. They didn't have material possessions cluttering up their spiritual sight.' Very interesting."

Language of Love...

As many as 3,000 villagers are believed to have lost their homes.

Earth, loosened by days of continuous rain, 
slid down a mountain and engulfed a town in Southern Leyte on Friday.

On February 17, 2006 Joe and I were living in Manila, Philippines when the devastating mudslides hit the southern town of Leyte.  

When Joe saw the first pictures of the mudslide - the largest picture on the front page of the paper was a man holding a dead child in his arms - Joe was speechless.  He was literally shocked speechless! He had never seen a picture of a dead child and was not prepared for those frightful images when he opened the folded newspaper hanging on our hotel room door.

I took a few minutes to read the startling headlines above and then tried to soften their blow in translation for Joe.  I explained to him what the pictures were describing - crying mothers and fathers holding their injured children; bleeding hands of men moving boulders and rocks with no machinery...the graphic images were too numerous to look at for more than just seconds at a time.

I tried to pull the paper from Joe's grasp, but he wanted an explanation...he wanted to look.  He wanted to understand what was happening to those people.  So we spent most of that morning together, talking, crying, praying that survivors would be found. 

After I gave him explanations that seemed to calm his emotions, I re-directed him to his art notebook and tried to finish preparing my class curriculum for the day.

A few minutes later he came to me dragging a large black trash bag. It was filled with items of clothing from his 3 suitcases.  Inside the bag were 14 shirts, 3 pair of pants, a belt and 2 pair of shoes. While I had been busy writing at the desk, he had actually gone through his suitcases and taken out the clothes he wanted to give to the families who had lost everything in the mudslides.

As I rummaged through the sack to see what he had put in there I noticed he had only selected his NEW shirts, NEW pants, NEW belt and NEW shoes. Not one item was chosen from his old or raggy old play clothes that were brought from home - he still had those tacky things in his suitcase.

Without asking permission or even waiting for me to assist him, he had formulated his own plan to select the very best of everything he had, put it in a satchel of some kind and give the items to the families he saw in the photographs.

He only gave me a few minutes to look at his bagged up clothes before he gathered the sack up in his arms and headed out of our hotel room straight to the elevator.  He was a man on a mission.

Of course, I followed him into the elevator and down to the front desk of the hotel - he with his newspaper in one hand and trash bag in the other.

Once he had the attention of the clerk at the front desk, and in his very slow, very labored speech, he pointed to the picture and said, "Me give (pause), my clothes."

By the time he had finished his slow, deliberate, four word explanation, several hotel employees had gathered around.  He said it again, with greater intensity and overwhelming emotion, "Me give (pause), my clothes." The look on their faces revealed exactly what they were feeling.

One bellboy, who had always been especially kind to Joe, gently peeled the sack from his tightened grip and assured him that the International Red Cross would deliver the clothes to the children in Leyte.

Almost one year after this experience, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir dedicated its January 28, 2007 'Music and the Spoken Word' radio broadcast to Joe in honor of his immediate outpouring of love to the mudslide victims.  

Of Joe it was said, "...in that moment, Joe spoke a language more perfect and eloquent than any other in the world.  He spoke a language that is native to every race and culture.  It binds hearts, overcomes barriers, and transforms lives.  The language Joe spoke best of all was the language of love."

We Got Johnny...

Fall 1952 – Juliesse & Johnny out for a stroll with Mother

August 1952 – Julie, Karl, Kristi, Baby Johnny

I was almost four years old when Mother went to the hospital to have our new baby. She was gone for what seemed to me like about a month. But I was used to being the baby of the family and I missed my mother very, very much.

After a day or two of her being gone, I remember Daddy came home from being with her at the hospital and told us we had a new little brother. His name was going to be John Albert Koerner.

I have one faint memory of talking on the phone sometime during that week to Mother about ‘baby Johnny’ and then my next memory is, I remember standing in the kitchen next to Karl and Kristi while we watched the door open. The sun was bright and blinded my sight except for a silhouette of Mother coming through the doorway holding something in her arms. I felt Daddy pick me up and set me down on a kitchen chair and then I felt a bundle being laid down into my arms. It was he whom I came to refer to as - Baby Johnny!

I must have been holding my breath while this happened, because through the years since this major event in my life, every time I recall this precious treasured memory – Daddy lifting me up and a warm bundle being placed in my arms - I hold my breath. Karl and Kristi must have been asking to hold the baby, too, because I faintly remember hearing Mother say, “She’s so young, let her be first.

Other memories I have regarding my adoration for this new little doll of mine include 1) sneezing when baby powder fluffed in my nose; 2) running down the hallway of our house with a clean diaper in my hands; 3) lifting the front wheel of Johnny's buggy up over a curb; 4) holding my hands over Johnny's face to shade his eyes from the sun and 5) laying my face on the floor next to the bedroom door where Johnny slept so I could be the first one to hear him wake up from his nap.

Songs Across the Lake...

In June of 1968, I was 20 years old and accepted work for the second year in a row as a counselor at Girl Scout Camp Timberlake on Eagle Mountain Lake in Azle, TX. This second summer at Camp Timberlake I was promoted from Waterfront ‘Counselor Jib’ to Assistant Waterfront & Boating ‘Director Jib’ and I LOVED this new job!

My immediate supervisor, the Waterfront & Boating Director, ‘Dock’, was responsible for teaching swimming, diving and lifesaving lessons to 120 camper girls per week for 7 weeks. 

I was responsible for teaching rowing, canoeing and sailing (in Dogie 3-4 man sailboats similar to image above) to the same number of campers.

Dock was an excellent swimmer and lifeguard while I was a strong rower and excellent sailor. We tried to respect each other’s areas of expertise, but being the Waterfront Director, Dock always had the last word on major decisions regarding concerns over weather, health or safety.

Week after week our schedules at the Waterfront were rugged, long and physically demanding. Each group of 5 girls had 1 Camp Counselor responsible for their immediate care – so we had assistance during the waterfront lessons, but there were times when ‘overload’ was definitely a part of our job description.

One letter I wrote to my parents during the summer of ’68 has outlasted the test of time and remains in my possession to this day, some 45 years after it was written. In this letter to Mom and Dad, I relate to them a frightening sailing experience with the girls that affirms my personal belief in God’s tender care and abundant mercy in protecting his little ones.

The letter reads as follows:

"Dear Folks, When I tell you everything that has happened this week you just won’t believe it. Let me start with Wednesday afternoon. We were supposed to take the girls out in the sailboats for the first time. Dock, the boating director, and I were the only ones who could run the boats so we were each taking two passengers out at a time in two separate ‘Dogie’ sailboats.

"I was surprised we went out at all because the wind was just over 10 knots (about 12 miles/hr) from behind the boat dock. There were small white caps but I was told to take the girls out anyway.

"On my 5th trip out, the wind was up and I had a camper and one counselor who had never been in a sailboat before. The wind was way too high and we had been given a Beetle sail as replacement for a Dogie sailboat…seemed like too many red flags going up, don’t you think?

"In addition to all this, the latch on our boom was broken so it wasn’t connected at all to the mast. Everything was wrong but our boating director gave me orders to go - and even though she was finished sailing for the day, she was determined for me to take this last group out. More red flags!

"Well, Dad, the inevitable happened and we were blown into the sand bogs...I knew we would need to take down the sails and paddle out. Enlisting the help of the counselor in the boat, I tried this several times, but each time - before we could get the sails up properly, we would drift back into the bog.

"Before long, my passengers (especially the counselor) were so frightened that they were frozen with fear on the bottom of the boat… so I asked them to sing with me - sing and sing and sing – every song that I had ever heard or learned from Girl Scouts, Young Women’s Camp or even Cub Scout Day Camp.

"When I finally got out of the bog and managed to get the sails up, I was heading straight for the middle of the lake going at a close reach (Mom, this is the point of sailing when the wind blows forward of the beam) and I thought when I got far enough from shore I would come about (change course) and try to head for the boat dock.

"Guess what happened then! Our sail that didn’t fit jerked the boom off from the mast so I had no control over the boom at all. Girls were singing at full voice as the boom swung back and forth - scaring me to death and threatening me with tipping over. I became sick to my stomach and much too tired from singing and pulling ropes to struggle much longer.

"At that precise moment, we just happened to be singing a phrase from an old cowboy song ‘…drifting along with the tumbling tumble weeds…’ and the inspired thought came into my head to follow the lyrics of the song and just let the boat drift for a while.

"Rounding a small island, a residential property appeared from out of nowhere and I let the boat drift to the private dock where we tied on and waited for help.

"As we’re singing about ’… open roads and skies of blue…’, the counselor in my boat motioned for me to look at a set of motor boat keys she was dangling from her fingers. She had just remembered that this whole time, she was holding on to the motor boat keys from back at Camp Timberlake, so no one back at the lodge was going to be able to bring the motor boat out to look for us.

"We just kept singing and after a few more songs help finally came and towed us back to camp. Later that evening, Sandi, the Camp Director, talked to me and assured me it wasn’t my fault. Dock was being let go and Sandi offered me the position of Waterfront & Boating Director. 

"Sandi, and all the parents were very pleased that I had kept the girls singing the whole time. In fact, they said once they started the search party, we could be heard singing all the way across the lake  up to the camp offices. The sound of our singing was how they knew where to locate us for the rescue!"

Merry Christmas to You...

Christmas 1958      I just found a lovely child's Christmas card tucked away in my family treasures. It was addressed to my mother and father from me. The inside of the card had the following message written in my funky 10 year old handwriting:



"Things I will do every day for you with a smile: Make bed, do dishes, baby sit Irene, shovel snow, clean room, set table, clear table and dust, have a good piano lesson, practice, be good in school."

Sweet Little Girlfriends...

'Sweet little girlfriends, you and me...'

From the early ages of two, three and four, my little sister, Irene, was one of the most delightfully friendly and vivacious little girls you could ever meet. She had no sense of being shy and was an immediate friend to every little person she played with. Sometimes a butterfly will sit on a bush – and attract hundreds of butterflies to the same bush. This was like Irene. Wherever she was playing, her carefree laughter and cheerful countenance always brought around a host of other little children to play beside her.

I remember helping Mother plan Irene’s 6th birthday party. It was going to be her first ‘friend’ party and she was very excited knowing that there would be games and treats with all her little friends actually coming to our home.

Once the party started, and most of the expected guests already arrived, the doorbell kept ringing over and over again.  Mother would ask Kristi and I to stay with the crowd of girls and keep things calm while she answered the door, but the doorbell kept ringing…and more little girls kept arriving.

Mother was expecting 10-14 little girls, but the count was already over 25 and growing!  Every time a few more children arrived Mom would ask if we knew their names or recognized their faces. We didn't and neither did she.  These little girls were complete strangers to us, had no parents escorting them, but knew Irene by name.  In fact, she squealed with delight to see them - and would call them by name when she greeted them!  Final count for guests at this party was 72 little girls ranging in age from about four to seven or eight.

Once the party was over and the guests were gone, Mother questioned Irene about where her whirlwind of friends came from. We were about to learn something extraordinary!  Irene had been so-o-o excited about getting to have her first ‘friend’ party, that she had not just invited the little girls in her school and church classes, but several times in the past week she had walked with her little neighborhood friends up 1600 South into the newly built subdivision at the top of the hill.  She invited all the little girls she met up there while they were out in their yards playing hopscotch or jump rope. There were more than 50 new homes in that new subdivision - just 5 or so blocks from our house!

Mother was in shock knowing that her golden-haired little darling had left our immediate neighborhood several times in the past few weeks - without any of us knowing where she was. She had walked with other little girls from around our house to find new friends to invite to her party. Mother deduced that the children from up the street had probably come down from their own homes and yards without their Mother’s permission and without those mothers even knowing where their daughters had wandered off to. 

Mother was beside herself thinking of the potential danger more than 60 little girls had put themselves into without even being aware of their own wrong doing when all little Irene was thinking of probably went something like this...

                                                    'sweet little girl friends, you and me…

                                                               we found another…
                                                                         and then there were three…
                                                                                   we started our group…
                                                                                             our circle of friends…
                                                                                                       and that dear little circle…
                                                                                                                 never, ever must end.'

Sights & Sounds & Smells...

Thinking back to Bountiful in the late 50’s/early 60’s, I remember going on Sunday afternoon drives with Mom, Dad and the whole crew, out to the SLC airport to watch the airplanes take off.

When it was nice weather, it was Dad’s absolutely favorite thing to do with all of us and it certainly was my favorite family outing, too! I liked it because in a large family of six children, not all family activities are regular – standard - dependable or even fun – but this usually was!

We older kids (Karl, Kristi, Julie & John) knew exactly what we had to do to make this ‘watch the airplanes’ thing happen. On sunny, Sunday afternoons, if the boys behaved nicely after church and didn’t tease the girls…and if the girls didn’t scream a lot and provoke the boys…and if everybody changed into their play clothes quickly and helped get things ready,......then 1) Mom would pack a great lunch, 2) Dad would stay in a good mood and 3) we’d spend the afternoon and early evening on the grass by the chain link fences alongside the runways at the Salt Lake Airport.

Dad always took the same route. He always pointed out the same landmarks. And he always told the same jokes. In the mind of a 10-12 year old girl (that was me) whose parents and siblings were usually stuck in high gear all the time (that was my family), there just seemed to be a lot of non-stress fun wrapped up into this activity.

Our typical route to the airport would be straight west down 1600 south to Redwood Road. (This was the old highway south into Salt Lake City.) Dad turned left on Redwood Road and headed south through orchard territory. In those days, hundreds of acres of peach trees lined both sides of the highway. Then came the refinery!! All of us made a huge fuss over the smelly, gross, overwhelmingly noxious rotten eggs smell in the air as we neared the monstrous oil refinery in North Salt Lake. One of the boys would always be the first to ask, “Gross, what’s that smell?” 

Then someone else picked up a standard line of, “Wasn’t me.” 

Someone else, “Yes, it was.” ‘No it wasn’t, it was _______.” 

Then started the competition for who would be the first to see the flame at the top of the fire stack while the bantering continued about who made the horrible gas smell in the car.  We'd laugh and tease, laugh and tease, laugh and tease until somebody got their feelings hurt and started to cry....and then everyone was in trouble and we all had to settle down.

Looking back on it, though, the really funny thing about that whole scenario was that no matter how many times we were reprimanded for starting that joke…and no matter how much trouble we all got in….we still started that same whole smelly, teasing joke about gas every single time we took this trip. We never DIDN'T start up that conversation!

It was as if we kids had written this play together – and we all thought it was a hit – Critic’s Choice Award type of stuff! We memorized our lines well, we all knew our cues and when we got to that neighborhood down in Woods Cross and started smelling the noxious odor, the curtain went up and, well, you know, ‘The Show Must Go On!’

Once we were out of Woods Cross and had passed the refinery, Dad always took a right turn at North Temple and headed straight out to the airport. We knew we were pretty close to Dad’s favorite runway service road when we saw the little eating joint on the left side of the highway that had big letters on the roof advertising it’s menu….only two words on the slanted roof….they could be seen for miles and miles…and boy did we laugh up a storm every time we saw them:

DANCING…….…………………….SANDWICHES

Dad would ALWAYS ask, ‘Mother, are you hungry? Should we take the kids in to see the dancing sandwiches?’ And we’d all laugh until our sides ached. And if we came even within a mile of that little dancing joint and Dad hadn’t said that to Mother yet, then we’d all pipe up together saying, ‘Dad, say it, say it! C’mon, Dad, say it!!’ Another Critics Choice Award performance for all of us!

Then all of a sudden, in the middle of our laughter, Dad would take a sharp right onto a service road for the airport. Depending on what time we arrived, there could be as many as 10-15 cars already parked along the grassy edges of the airport fence with folks sitting on or in their cars. Weekends were really popular for folks of all ages to come stand up to the chain link fence – hang on for balance – and tip their head back, to watch the air traffic come and go.  Listen to airplane sound effects!

It really was a magic experience that every child should have! The size of the planes were simply unbelievable to a child and the roar of the engines was deafening! The instant Dad parked the car, turned off the engine and gave last minute instructions on appropriate behavior, we shot out of the car, no matter what type of plane was approaching - passenger, cargo, fighter, twin engine…and when the plane was directly over our heads…the boys jumped to the fence line while Kristi and I looked at each other and opened our mouths wide to make a high pitched scream into the air that lasted almost a minute and we thought no one could hear our screams over the blasting roar of the passing engine.

I remember our instant scream always irritated Karl and John. We'd have to dart away from them as they would try to catch us to make us stop. We weren’t supposed to ‘play wild’ out in public so after that little performance, Dad routinely assigned the two girls to sit on the hood of the car and the two boys to sit on the roof of the car. And we all loved our assigned spots! At least I think we did – I know I sure did!  Listen to airplane sound effects!

After we had calmed down, the four of us usually slipped one-by-one back into the grass to wander around and play in the grass while the babies and Mom took a nap in the car.

While sitting on the hood, though, I do remember leaning against the windshield next to my sister, Kristi and the two of us stretching our arms up into the air just as the airplanes passed overhead. Sometimes it felt like I could actually run my hands down shiny silver jets as they passed by. When the airplanes were still far off, Dad would remind us to watch the hatches open under the fuselage. He’d say, “Here come the wheels! Watch the wheels...watch the wheels roll down!”

When the jet planes were especially low and we could taste the exhaust from the engines trickling down to us you could hear Mother and quite a few other adults say to the children, “Close your mouths! Close your eyes! Be careful not to breathe the fumes!” Then somewhere in the distance Dad would hear a very special sound and he say, “Listen, here comes a Piper! Look for the Piper Cub! Who sees the Piper Cub?”

Dad would take the boys and walk around a bit. I remember images of John sometimes sitting on top of Dad’s shoulders and raising his arms high into the sky to try to touch the planes. I also seem to remember Kris and I helping Mother with the babies after naptime while she laid out the picnic lunch on the tailgate. I would dance around with little Irene in the grass while Kris usually played games with baby Gus. Listen to airplane sound effects!

After lunch, if anyone got really, really naughty and had to be disciplined, they were assigned to sit in the back of the station wagon – presumably to take a nap. Actually, that really wasn’t too bad a punishment because before we left home, Mother always had us throw pillows, blankets and a book or two back there with the picnic basket.

Also, the tail gait window was always rolled down and you could stick your head right out the window and look straight up into the undercarriage of the approaching aircraft without getting any bug bites from walking in the tall grass. And after a few minutes when no one was watching, a really smart kid (like I thought I was) could slither quietly up out of the back hatch window onto the roof of the station wagon without anyone noticing.

I could lay quietly on my back and just feel the thunderous engine roars turning into vibrations on the metal roof of the car. To this day, whenever I sit in a massage chair, I think of the Sunday afternoon airplane outings when I was laying on the roof of our old blue station wagon. If I closed my eyes back then, I could even feel the darkness of the plane shadow as it passed directly over me. Wow, what a thrill for a child! 

Although I have absolutely no idea what planes were really flying in and out of airports back in the 50’s, I did find some Google images of planes and a web link to airplane sound effects to share on this page that instantly brought back the sights, sounds and smells that are so dear to me from those Sunday afternoon outings. Rare moments of childhood bliss should be remembered often. Listen to airplane sound effects!

Thousands of Mantises...

While we were still living in base housing at Wright Patterson AFB in the early-mid 1950’s, I remember one of my brothers showing us a twig he had broken off the limb of a tree. This must have been Karl – because it seems Johnny would have still been a little baby….but I’m not sure. On the twig was a huge cocoon. It was soft and furry and one of the biggest cocoon’s even Mom or Dad had ever seen. We all were sure it was going to be a lovely butterfly when it hatched.

Mother gave him a mason jar with a lid for his cocoon and he nestled it among leaves and bits of grass down inside the jar. He poked holes in the top of the lid and waited day after day for his butterfly to hatch.

When we sat around the living room floor watching TV, I remember laying as close as I could to the jar so I could watch and hopefully be the first one to see signs of life wriggling out of the fluffy layers. He would often take the lid off the jar and let us take turns holding the twig – letting us take turns inspecting every inch of the specimen as closely as we could.

I don’t remember if it was a morning or a nap-time afternoon – but I know everyone in the family responded to frantic scream coming from the boys’ bedroom. We ran up the stairs and around the hallway into the boys’ room. Mother burst in first to see thousands and thousands of the tiniest little creatures crawling, hovering and jumping around the room. They were green and looked kind of like grasshoppers but they certainly were NOT butterflies – they were praying mantis! (Nature Fact Sheet: Each praying mantis egg case will hatch about 100-200 tiny mantises, all at once – but my little girl memory envisions there being ‘thousands and thousands’!)

My brother was screaming at the top of his lungs because he was up on the top bunk (must have been Karl), with his body covered with the little creatures. They were all over his head, his pillow, his covers, his arms, his bed frame – completely surrounding him and crawling around.

Mother calmed him down immediately by walking slowly over to his bedroom window and opening it as high as it would go. She turned back to him and told him how wonderful it was that he had kept the lid off the jar while he slept so his little friends could find their freedom as soon as they came out of their cocoon rather than be trapped in the jar and possibly have died.

I remember my brother starting to laugh as Mother let the little praying mantis babies crawl on her arms and hands. He was no longer frightened and neither was I. I also remember running to the window to help Mother shoo the little ones on their way. This is one of my most treasured memories of the Dayton, Ohio days.

We're Going Over...

Not  long after our family moved from Minnesota to Texas in 1964, Dad bought a 2-man boat (we called it a dinghy) for some of the best family fun I can remember!  I remember us all loving the lake outings so much that Dad kept trading up to larger boats – 2 feet at a time – until it wasn’t too many summers before we had a 16 ft boat with a small cabin similar to the  image shown above.  This was the last boat I enjoyed with the family before starting college. 

I can’t speak for any of the other kids, but I particularly LOVED sailing with Dad.  It was the one thing we did together when he patiently taught me how to do something that he also loved doing. 

The boys had his heart and soul for Scout meetings, hikes, overnight outings and summer camp to which we girls were not invited.  But when I asked to go sailing, I knew I was absolutely welcome in the sailboat because I was showing Dad I was eager and willing to learn a new skill.  I especially looked forward to the trips out to Benbrook Lake.

The summer of ‘67 Dad became quite enthralled with his 16’ sailboat with a small lower deck and 3 sails.  That rig proved to be quite a challenge for him – but most of the time John and/or Gus went along when Dad would be facing Benbrook’s stronger winds.    

I remember one particularly beautiful Saturday morning, however, when the boys weren’t home and Dad REALLY wanted to go out sailing.  I was available, but Mom was hesitant to go because the wind in the neighborhood was already pretty gusty and she felt that things might be too rough out in the middle of the lake.  Her sea sickness kicked in VERY easily!

Dad promised her we’d just drive out to take a look.  He said if things were too rough we’d come right back.  Well, once we got out to the lake, the sky was blue, the wind was mild and the water was beckoning us onward.  Neither Dad nor I could resist the sweet temptation to sail! 

I wasn’t as skilled as the boys at helping Dad back the boat trailer down the ramp at the waters’ edge, unhooking the boat and then keeping it steady while Dad parked the truck off to the side of the ramp…but I did my best.

On this particular morning, with me as the only crew, Dad had to do a lot of things by himself – and as he became more and more frustrated, the wind picked up without either one of us taking notice.

By the time he came running back to the boat from the truck, the rolled up sails were starting a fluttered rap, rap, rap – and when Dad jumped into the boat and jerked the mainline to heave up the mainsail, the wind caught hold of the unruly sheets and jerked us both off kilter…and without warning, the boat began gliding too fast along the surface of the water.

As we headed farther and farther out to the center of the lake, we looked around and realized that no other boats were out today.  There was no one to give signal of our distress.  Our lifejackets had slid out of our out of our reach onto the lower deck and we were in big trouble! 

We couldn’t catch our balance and the boat started tipping over to one side.  Dad first pulled himself up and then me as he tried to off- balance the wind with our combined body weight on the windward side of the boat. 

He handed me two ropes and told me to do with my ropes exactly what I saw him doing.  We wrapped the lines down around our back, then around an elbow and gripped tightly with our hands.  We leaned backward over the high edge of the boat as far as we dared.  My eyes were glued on Dad’s face to catch any slight glimpse of instruction from him.

Steeled concentration fixed the muscles of his face and I tried ever so hard to do exactly what he was doing.  My arms locked in place just like his.  My knees and feet pushed down to lean against the side of the boat with my calf muscles tensed just like his.

At that split second in time, I remember thinking/praying, “…let me be strong like Dad, let me be strong like Dad…”

Now, there were many things about my father I didn’t like – and many times as a young adult I didn’t want to be anything like him.  But right now, in the boat, I was proud of him.  I was proud to be with him.  I was trying to mimic his skill at sailing…his tenacity to overcome adversity…his Thor Heyerdahl spirit of adventure.  And I was very proud to be standing next to him in our sudden fight for life against the elements.

…this grand opportunity had come for me to partner with Dad in a challenge against the winds of fate.  I wanted more than anything to move like Dad, think like Dad and outwit nature like Dad was surely going to do.  But he didn’t outwit nature at all.

I took one long last look at him as our bodies were lifted like childish puppets – no - like paper kites - higher and higher - the boat continuing its self-designed rollover against our wishes. 

Suddenly, I heard the mast slap the surface of the water and break apart into large shards of wood.  The sails were useless.  We were taking on water and could no longer fight the inevitable.  Dad smiled in a toothy, happy grin and motioned for me to let go of the ropes.  He started to laugh, winked at me and said, “Hold on to your pants, Julie, we’re goin’ over!”