Where were you when . . .

The recent anniversary of 9/11 made many stop and pause to remember where they were when they heard the news about the Twin Towers being attacked and destroyed. It made me think of the other memorable moments in history when I was a witness and where I was when I heard the news. 

Terrorist Attacks on the NYC Twin Towers, Pentagon, etc. Sept 11, 2002 

I had just arrived at Holbrook Elementary School the morning of September 11, when a teacher came running out of her room to say that a plane had crashed into the Twin Towers in New York. It was an hour before school would start so I ran to her room and watched the drama unfold. When we realized it was a terrorist strike that involved multiple strikes, we worried what was happening to our nation. However school went on, and we tried to calm the students and not to let them dwell on the situation. School did not let out early, as I now realize many companies and universities did, as we did not want to traumatize the students. 

But as fearful as that day was, I remember looking to the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley for assurance, and that evening, he spoke at a previously scheduled Mormon Tabernacle concert that was turned into a memorial service. “Dark as is this hour,” said the Church President, “there is shining through the heavy overcast of fear and anger the solemn and wonderful image of the Son of God. It is to Him that we look in these circumstances.” 

In General Conference a few weeks later, in his first message, he told of the terrible sacrifices and despairs of the Saints as they were driven West, giving up everything. But there was hope in their hearts and they looked forward with hope, just as we look forward with hope. He encouraged us to look forward with hope to the challenges we were facing. I remember that the sorrow and fear I had felt since the terrorist attack lifted as I heard the prophet. I looked forward with hope again.

Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster, January 26, 1986: 

This explosion in space killing seven astronauts, including a civilian, a teacher, shocked all of us who thought our space program was infallible. I remember being in my Italian class at the University of Maryland in Vicenza, Italy, the night we heard it had happened; all of us were shocked and dismayed. We couldn’t study; we couldn’t concentrate, but none of us wanted to go home. 

We wanted to discuss what had happened and how it would change our world. Would there be more space flights? Would they shut down the shuttle program? My husband was in the military and we wondered how it would affect his career, or our situation in Italy.  

First Vietnam POWs Released, Feb. 11, 1971 

This day may have gone unnoticed by most people, but for Ed and I this was a heart-rending and never-to-be forgotten day. I remember staying up all night waiting for the flight to reach Manila in the Philippines where the prisoners walked off the plane into freedom to be examined by doctors. It was the middle of the night but I cried as we watched their names being flashed on the screen to see if we knew any of them. 

I remembered a night in 1968 while Ed was in Vietnam when I had gone to a Waiting Wives group (other women whose husbands were serving in Vietnam). I had gone in a car pool and when we dropped an Air Force pilot’s wife off at her house, there was an official US Air Force car waiting in front of her house. Her husband’s plane had gone down over North Vietnam and he would be a prisoner for years. She would eventually divorce him before he was released in 1973. 

Ed, Marlowe & me approximate 1969

Ed had a high school classmate, Larry Chesley, who had also been a Vietnam POW in North Vietnam. We both watched anxiously that night those first prisoners were released and many others prisoner releases until he was freed in 1973. I thought how easily it could have been Ed who had been captured sometime during his two tours of Vietnam. We later found out one of Ed’s flight school classmates had been a POW for years, and we have his book, as well as Larry Chesley’s book, and the one with my friend’s husband’s story.  

Man’s Walk on the Moon: July 21, 1969 

It seemed the world stood still that night about 10:00pm as we watched the TV to see Neil Armstrong step off the space module and into history. We had even let our 20-month old son stay up late to see the momentous occasion. I was 8 ½ months pregnant with my 2nd child, and I’d hoped that she would be born around the time of the walk on the moon, but she waited another six weeks to arrive. I cut out the front page of the Fort Worth newspaper and decoupaged it onto a board to save to show my children the day history changed and man no longer was earth bound.  

John F. Kennedy Assassination: Friday, Nov. 22, 1963 

It is easy to remember where I was when I heard Kennedy was assassinated—Ed and I were getting our wedding license. Actually I heard something at work at the Beneficial Life Company just as I was leaving to get my license but it was rumor and no one knew anything for sure. But by the time Ed and I got to the Salt Lake City Building, it was official and everyone had TVs and radios blaring the news—Kennedy had been shot and they thought he was dead. We got our license despite all the brouhaha and I actually got back to work, where of course no one was working, everyone was glued to the radios (no one had TVs). 

Ed was listening so intently to the radio in his car that he rear-ended the car ahead of him at a light (but didn’t do any damage). I don’t think anyone did any work, but we stayed at work the whole day. Monday was an official day of mourning so we got the day off, and I could get ready for my wedding which was on Wednesday. However, it was a very sad time. 

My wedding was overshadowed by the unexpected death of the president. People were speculating President Johnson had a hand in the assassination since it happened in his home state, and since he was rushed to be sworn in as President before he flew home with the body—all things which were false. 

Our wedding day

How history’s great events imprint themselves on our memory usually depends on how tangentially it affects our lives. Many others shared these same historical experiences, but that memories are so different, or they might not even remember the event. That is part of the joy of memory!

The Key to My Dreams

Can you wrap a dream in gift wrap and give it to someone? Can you tie up hopes in red satin bows and make them come true? The Christmas of 1961 my parents found gifts that were the key to my dreams and changed my frozen heart to one filled with optimism.

Christmas of 1961 was cold and bitter, but I seldom felt its frigid bite because my heart was enclosed in a casing of ice. It was my senior year of high school, but I had allowed one decision (to not go out for pep club) to warp my whole year. It had appeared to be a simple choice, based on the fact that I didn’t care for sports and I had responsibilities at home. However that one choice had drastically changed relations between my friends and me. Furthermore it had changed how I viewed my future.

My friends went to school early to practice for pep club. They stayed afterwards for the games and activities. I walked to school by myself, hid in the library at lunch, studied during the pep rallies and pretended that I was happy. My friends planned excitedly to go away to this or that college, while I began to question whether college for me was an impossible dream. Rather than mention my fears, I withdrew from the few activities that I still participated with my friends in, and embraced my resentment like a prickly hair shirt. When my friends filled their wish lists with luggage and clothes for their college life, I didn’t even dare make a wish list.

It was more than pep club that divided me from my friends that year, but pep club was an easy scapegoat. My older brother had left for a mission for our church which put an economic strain on our family, but my mother’s failing health spelled doom to my dreams of college. My dreams of going away to college seemed selfish and impossible.

Perhaps if I had talked about how much college meant to me it would have been different, but I couldn’t. I was terrified if I said one word about college, the bitter truths that ruled my life at home would shatter my hopes like brittle glass. It was easier to hold the pain inside, letting it freeze my hopes and distort my attitude. I became secretive and resentful. Rather than enjoying the season, I made life miserable for everyone.

When Dad offered to take me shopping, I griped that I had too much to do. When Mother asked what I wanted for Christmas, I snapped back, "Why even ask? We can’t afford anything anyway!" My younger brother and sisters quieted in my presence, fearful I’d bite their heads off as sport. Eventually most of my friends began to avoid me.

My mother knew that I was unhappy, but I obstinately refused to tell her what had blighted my life. Perhaps I felt that it would be one more heavy burden for her to carry so I refused to let on how much college meant to me. My sweet mother with her gentle smile and unselfish heart had quit high school to support her family when her father died during the Great Depression. She was very intelligent, but she had never even been able to finish high school. In some unexplainable manner, previously I felt that I needed to get an education both for myself and for her. Now that my college dreams seemed impossible, I buried my hopes beneath a surly attitude and made myself miserable. I knew no one could find the key to unlock my dreams.

That Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. I growled when the younger kids tried to entice me to see what Santa had brought because I knew that what I wanted most could not be found under a Christmas tree. But I was wrong.

Santa hadn’t left a bushel of expensive trinkets for any of us. But my parents, with perception and hope had unlocked my heart with two unique and special gifts—a small bound book of Emily Dickenson’s poetry and a vinyl soundtrack of my favorite musical, Carnival. I looked at my mother and began to cry.

“How did you know I loved Emily Dickenson?” I sobbed.

“I called all your friends until I found out what you’d been talking to them about. You’ve always wanted to be a writer, and Sharon told me that your favorite poet was Emily Dickenson. The book will be useful when you begin your English studies at college next fall. Linda told me that you loved Broadway musicals. I hope you like the one I picked out; maybe it will do until you see one on Broadway someday.”

My dad was mumbling about the gifts he wished he could have given me. He said that when he won the lottery he’d buy me bushels of Janzten sweaters. But I didn’t hear him.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I could see their vision for me. It was a vision that I hadn’t dared dream about—that my mother would not live long enough to see.

Gifts are merely symbols of what we would really like to give others. For how can you wrap love inside silver paper? How can you place a red satin bow around dreams? How can you gift someone with hope and confidence? That Christmas my mother had searched for the key to my dreams. And she had succeeded.

My Father’s Legacy

My father was an ordinary, blue-collar man. He never accumulated great wealth, or served as president of an organization, auxiliary or club. He never wrote a book, invented a new machine, won war medals, or did anything to make him well known or famous. When he died, there were no buildings or streets named after him, no colleges endowed by him, or long obituaries written for him. What legacy did he leave for his children? He left a legacy of a strong work ethic, a willingness to help others, a love of learning, loving support, and a testimony of Christ.

When I was young, I never realized my father had a testimony, because it was hard for him to show it. I assumed he believed in the gospel because he always took us to Church. However, because he was Fay 1957 shy or whatever—I don’t know why—he never blessed, baptized, confirmed, or ordained any of us older children. He did participate in priesthood confirmations and ordinations, so I never felt deprived. That was just how it was. Looking back, I never recall a time when he gave me a father’s blessing during my early years, but maybe I never asked him for one.

I never saw my father gradually take on the mantle of noble patriarch of his family, because after I married, my husband’s work took me far from my childhood home. Even after my mother’s death, as Dad remarried and reared a second family, I was never around to see him magnify his priesthood.


My sister was more fortunate because she lived only a couple of miles from Dad. It was Dad who blessed and named her first son, who helped ordain her husband to the Melchizedek Priesthood, and who participated in all of her sons’ ordinations. He came to their Family Home Evenings and always participated. She recalls that every Christmas Dad would tell of his love of Heavenly Father.

It was 25 years later, when we moved back in my home state with children of our own, that I realized what a strong family leader my father had become. He participated in every ordinance that his many children and grandchildren received. He helped give my children and grandchildren priesthood blessings, and I received several very special father’s blessings that I will never forget. He went to the temple with each prospective missionary, and sat in the special place of honor at their weddings.

It was in May of 1998 that I first heard my father bear his testimony. He had helped name and bless a nephew’s newest baby, and afterwards he stood in the fast and testimony meeting and bore a simple, heartfelt testimony.

“So many of my family are here today, that I can’t let this opportunity pass without letting them know I have a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel,” my father said gripping his canes to keep his balance. “I love the Savior. I know he hears and answers our prayers. I know that we have a prophet at the head of this Church.”

My brothers and sisters and I looked at each other in amazement, because although we had assumed our father had a testimony, we had never heard him bear it before. How grateful we were for that treasured testimony, because soon afterwards he suffered a massive heart attack and never had the opportunity to bear his testimony in public again.




Although my father had difficulty expressing his testimony, his life was a testament of his concern and love for others. He was always the first to help someone in need, to mow someone’s lawn, or fix someone’s car. He shared the bounty of his gardens with everyone.

My father was always intrigued by technology and progress. I recall that we had one of the first television sets in 1950 before there were many channels or shows broadcast. He never lost that enthusiasm for learning new things, and in his 80s, he embraced computers, e-mail, and scanners. I’ll never forget his words in the Intensive Care unit, “I can’t die yet. I haven’t learned how to use my scanner yet.”

My father attended all of our activities and those of our children. He sat through countless recitals, concerts, plays, and games as he cheered his posterity on, and took us out for ice cream afterwards.

Like many of his generation, he was a hard-working man, who expected us to carry our own loads. But, even as he taught us to work hard, he helped us realize how exciting work and training can be.

Although my father found it difficult to express his love when we were young, he more than made up for it telling us how much he loved us in his later years. We never left his home, but that he said, “I love you and appreciate all you’ve done for me.” You knew it wasn’t ritual or meaningless phrases, but came from his heart.

Although his faith was a quiet, unspoken kind, he demonstrated it in countless ways. I recall a time when I was living in Hawaii and had to have a biopsy of my breast. Because my mother had died of breast cancer, everyone was very worried. My father organized a special family fast, and gathered everyone together afterwards for a special family prayer. I wasn’t aware of the fast, but half a world away, I felt the effect of their father and prayers, when I had a special answer—I felt a peace enfold me that helped me face the challenges ahead. It was a real demonstration to me of my father’s and my family’s faith.

Faith cannot be weighed on a mortal scale. Nor can the value of a father’s example be counted in coin or currency. The worth of a life is not always reflected in the number of scholarships endowed, or buildings bearing one’s name. It may not even be measured by the length of a man’s obituary.

Sometimes a man’s legacy is reflected only obliquely through his posterity’s faith, lives and testimonies.