"...we're goin' over!"

"...we're goin' 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!  We all loved 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 16ft 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.  Mom decided to wait in the truck and write letters, but 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.  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 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 he grabbed me as he tried to off-balance the wind with our combined body weight on the windward side of the boat.

He picked up two ropes, handed me one of them and told me to do with my rope exactly what I saw him doing with his.  He guided me to wrap line down around my back, then around one of my elbows and instructed me to grip as tightly to the rope with my hands as I possibly could.  I did exactly as he said. We both leaned backward over the high edge of the boat as far as we dared.  My eyes were glued on Dad's face to catch even the slightest 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!"

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."