You Can't Always Judge an Open Book

I located Bryan’s birth certificate yesterday so he could renew his driver’s license yesterday. Actually he has three certificates—the elegant, colorful Italian birth certificate in two languages that certifies that he was born in Vicenza, Italy, the official certificate of birth from the base (with notarized signatures) that indicates his birth on the military base at Caserma Ederla, Vicenza, Italy, and the official one (and the only one that counts) the record of birth abroad at the embassy in Milan, Italy, that required birth certificates of both Ed & I, our marriage certificate, our passports, and his birth certificate from the hospital at Caserma Ederla. The last was the only one the Driver’s License Bureau would accept as legal proof—the others were pretty, but worthless.

It was ironic that when we went to the city offices in Vicenza to get the Italian certificate, they originally printed that he was born on 30 February instead of 30 January. I tried to explain to them in my inadequate Italian that the date was wrong; there was no 30 February—not even in Italy. They argued with me for a few minutes, trying to set straight the foolish Americans, before they realized their error and corrected it. Ed has always wished he could have kept the birth certificate with the incorrect date, but they destroyed it quickly; I was just glad to get one with the correct date so we could get the paper work done to get Bryan’s papers so we could get him papers to certify him as an American and bring him back to America with us. 

Another interesting sideline to Bryan’s birth abroad; he does not have dual citizenship by being born in Italy. The Italian law does not grant any rights to an individual born in their country as America does; you retain the citizenship of your parents. However, if your parents or grandparents or great-grandparent’s heritage is Italian, no matter how many generations removed from Italy, you can regain Italian citizenship. So Bryan is as American as if he were born in Utah.

The correct birth certificates are very important as Ed found out when we lived in Hawaii. Normally military personnel do not need passports as long as they are on military business; their military ID serves as a passport. In the good old days you did not need a passport to travel to Mexico or Canada, so we could travel to both of those countries without a passport, and we traveled to Mexico often as we were stationed in El Paso, Texas on the border of Mexico. 

However in 1980 when we lived in Hawaii, Ed & I decided to travel to Japan and Korea on Space-A (Space Available—or military flights wherever there was room). To do this, we both needed passports. Ed pulled out his Idaho birth certificate to get a passport and we discovered that all we had was the hospital certificate (similar to what Bryan had), and it didn’t count as an official birth certificate. We were in a terrible time crunch to get an official state birth certificate so Ed called his sister who worked at the Idaho state capital and she obtained a copy of his birth certificate (not nearly as “pretty” as his hospital certificate) and over-nighted it to us in Hawaii. With that, we were able to get a passport and our visas in time for our trip. 

That experience really impressed upon me the importance of true official documents; I also realized how often true documents are not as pretty as fancy unofficial documents. 

I later extended this analogy to people—some people come in very charming, attractive, pretty, striking packages that influence people.  Other people come in very plain, unattractive, official-looking, simple packages that don’t enthrall or excite people; however these people are often honest, hardworking, dedicated, loving, and very valuable. That isn’t to say that charming, attractive people cannot be wonderful, but so often we overlook the simple people because they don’t stand out. Yet they might be just as honest, upright, intelligent, and full of integrity as those who stand out.

We're always quick to judge an open book; sometimes it pays to read between the lines.

Grey Hair at Eighteen

I didn’t date much in high school, but I remember one date that was very memorable. It was a date I had in 1961 when I was a junior and I went to the senior prom at Bountiful High School. My date, Bill was a very intelligent guy from a wealthy family who was planning on going to medical school. He had been accepted at a prestigious college back east. We had known each other for quite a while through Honor Societies, United Nations and other activities and he had asked me to go with him to his senior prom.

“Don’t worry, Beth, I’ll get you home in time,” Bill laughed.

“I just don’t want my parents to worry,” I said. I was having a good time, but I always worried about everything.

“Relax,” Bill said. “No one has started leaving yet. Besides, this is my senior prom. Let’s enjoy it.”

“I guess you’re right. It is still early.”

“Don’t forget, the new car my folks gave me for graduation will make it to the moon and back in a flash, so it’ll take only a second to get home.”

Persuaded by the soft lights, Bill’s laughter, and the dancing, I pushed the nibbling worry further back among the cobwebs. This was the prom, I rationalized; my parents wouldn’t expect me to come home until later.

It was 12:15 a.m. when we finally left the dance and raced our friends to Salt Lake City to eat at the Pancake House. Bill’s car was swifter than the rest so no one was at there when we arrived. Bill, too impatient to wait there, started searching for them. As it became later, and we couldn’t find them, he decided to eat without them. Since by now, the Pancake House was closed, we headed toward the airport.

Once away from the glare and noise of the city, and onto the still darkness of the road, my worry again crept to the surface. The excitement of the evening was beginning to wilt, and I thought of how my parents would start worrying if we didn’t get home soon. But I took a deep breath, looked over at Bill—and thought, he’ll get me home in time.

My worry increased as the road stretched more and more endlessly ahead of us and we saw no sign of the airport. Finally I ventured a remark.

“Are you sure we’re on the right road? I don’t see any sign of the airport.”

“Yes, we’re going due west, aren’t we? There’s only one road going that way—the one to the airport.”

“But it has never taken this long to get out to the airport. It’s getting pretty late, too.”

Bill clutched the wheel more tightly and floored the engine as though speed would drive away my worry. I searched the empty roadside anxiously for a sign of some sort to tell us where we were headed. As the miles swept by, a small line of fear began to crease Bill’s face, and my hands grew clammy as I thought of my parents worrying at home. Just as we were about to give up, we saw a small sign ahead. Bill slowed the car as we drew nearer. My heart turned over with despair as I read, “Bingham, 5 miles.”

“Well, anyway, we weren’t too far off; we are heading West, or Southwest.” I feebly tried to joke, hoping to laugh away my growing fear. In my mind’s eye, I saw my mother apprehensively pacing the floor, wondering why I wasn’t home.

Finally, after what seemed to be hours of anguish, we drove into the airport parking lot; my watch read 2:33. I tried to smile as I ordered sandwiches, the quickest prepared food on the menu, while Bill went to phone my parents to tell them we’d be getting home later than we’d planned. I relaxed a little, thinking that at least they wouldn’t worry any longer. But one look at Bill’s face as he returned told me I was wrong.

“Your line’s busy,” he told me. “I couldn’t talk to your folks.” My mind thought immediately of them frantically calling all over, trying to find out why I wasn’t home. The food, as I tried to force it down, tasted like dry paper. If only we’d get home, I kept thinking.

“Let’s go on Redwood Road,” Bill said. “It may be more isolated, but it will get you home in ten minutes.” I relaxed again as the car raced along the darkened road. I wouldn’t be much longer until I’d be home.

“Heck! Look at that temperature!” Bill exclaimed as he jerked on the brake. I looked, and my heart stopped as it glared a bright red at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked timidly, scared by this new obstacle and also by the look on Bill’s face.

“I don’t know, but the oil’s dry, too.” We crawled along for a while, but neither the oil, nor the temperature got any better. Suddenly the speedometer jumped.

“If it doesn’t improve going slowly, I might as well go faster so we won’t be so far out here in no man’s land when it gives out,” he explained.

I sat silently hoping we’d make it to civilization before the engine stopped. Now I was worrying, not only about what my parents were thinking, but also about whether I’d ever get home. No one would think to look for us out of Redwood Road.

Suddenly all hopes were dashed as the engine sputtered and stopped. I held my breath as the car came to a halt. As Bill examined the engine, I sat inside and fought back the tears. I realized that, now, my parents had a valid right to worry about me.

As I thanked the person who’d picked us up and taken me home, I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead. The customary porch light showed my watch that it was 4:40 a.m. I could see only one of our cars; either the other was in the garage or my parents were out looking for me.

“I’m terribly sorry, Beth,” Bill broke into my train of thought. “Do you want me to go in and try to explain to your parents?”

“No, you’d better go get someone to tow your car and see if there’s anything they can do about fixing it.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry about everything.”

I opened the door and crept into the house; to my shock no one was up. They were not pacing the floor waiting for me. Even if they had gone to bed, they would never have gone to sleep before they knew I was safely home. But this time they had! I couldn’t believe it.

I tiptoed in to say “good night” and the noise awoke my mother slightly.

“What time is it?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I don’t know,” I lied. The next morning was early enough to tell her the story.

“We went to sleep and didn’t worry,” she muttered, “cause we knew you’d be okay with Bill, and you are always so responsible.”

Well, I thought heading for my own room, it’s a relief to know they didn’t worry.

Winter Lessons

Marlowe taking care of Athena Christmas 1970

The winter winds blew so coldly and I felt so vulnerable as I left the pediatrician’s office with my 18-month old daughter, Athena. The doctor had said her cough wasn’t anything serious and hadn’t given me anything for it, but I was still worried. She kept coughing and coughing. It was only a few days before Christmas in 1970, and I was living in a small upstairs apartment in Bountiful, Utah while my husband was serving his second tour as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. My oldest son, Marlowe, had just celebrated his third birthday, and he held onto Athena’s hand as we walked to the car, telling her she would be better soon.

 Ed had left for Vietnam in mid-November and I’d felt very brave and self-confident then. But the cold, snow, and Athena’s cough, had weakened my resolve. But since the doctor had said Athena was “okay” I decided to do some more shopping. I just didn’t want to go home to my empty apartment. It was dark before I got home, and the phone was ringing. I grabbed it, and tried to get the children’s coats off as I talked on the phone. I was surprised that it was my dad. He was very worried and explained that he had been trying to locate me for hours. 

Beth Christmas 1970 Bountiful, Utah

“The doctor’s office called me when they couldn’t reach you,” he said.  “You had put me down as an emergency contact. The radiologist looked at Athena’s x-ray and said she definitely had pneumonia and you needed to get her back to the emergency room at Hill Field as soon as possible. They have medicine and treatment waiting for her.”

I looked at my toddler, whose coat I had just taken off, and who was coughing again. What a lousy mother I had been. I had kept her out all afternoon when she was sick with pneumonia! How grateful I was that my father had been able to get the message from the doctors and notify me. 

Later that same winter I was feeling lonely and isolated. I had no one I could relate to. I missed my two sisters who were closest in age to me. Both were married and living far away. One had one daughter Athena’s age, and the other was expecting a baby the same time I was, in February. How I wished we could do things together; but we were so far away and long distance phone calls were so expensive. Our mother had died not long after I had married so none of us had had someone we could call on for motherly advice.  Dad lived in the same town, but he worked swing shift. My younger brother at home was 16 years old; my youngest sister had just turned 14 years old. My mother-in-law lived several hundred miles away; she had remarried recently and her husband did not care for my husband, so I did not feel I could call on her for help or advice.

Marlowe & Athena 1970

One of the other “Waiting Wives” in Bountiful had three small children about the same age as mine, and I often thought to call her and do things with her. However, I knew she had many siblings who lived in the area, and I kept thinking that I was being a bother to want to do things with her when she was probably doing things with her family. When I went back to the pediatrician to have him check to make sure Athena was completely clear of her pneumonia, I met my friend there in the waiting room in tears. Her youngest son was very sick, and she had no one to take care of the other two while they hospitalized him. I immediately offered to take them home with me, and was surprised that her family had not offered to help her. 

“They are too busy with their lives. They don’t understand how it is to not have a husband to help,” she sobbed. 

I realized all the times I had hesitated to call her because I thought I would bother her when she was busy with her extended family, and she was just as isolated as I was because her husband was in Vietnam. I decided then to reach out to each woman whose husband was in Vietnam—whether they had a lot of extended family or not. We were in a unique situation; no one understood what it was like and how we could help each other like we could. 

Athena & Marlowe playing in the snow 1971

It was late in January of 1971 when I got my last lesson. I awoke to my three-year-old son crying. I went to him and tried to comfort him, but nothing would help. He was doubled over with pain. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t talk. Finally I realized that I needed to take him to the emergency room. It was about 3:00 in the morning, and I was frantic. I couldn’t take both children out in the cold to the emergency room, so what was I to do?  I prayed; I knew Marlowe had to go to the emergency room. Something was desperately wrong with him. 

I decided to call my father. He worked swing shift. He would come over no matter what the hour to babysit Athena while I took Marlowe to the emergency room. I called and he came right over. I’ll never forget what he said when he saw Marlowe. 

“He’s wheezing, Beth. He has asthma.” I was shocked. I had had asthma as a baby, and for a year as a teenager, but then I had mainly coughed continually. I couldn’t remember wheezing, or even what wheezing was. 

“Can’t you hear him wheezing?” Now that I listened of course I could hear the wheezing sound. “That’s why he can’t talk—he can’t breathe.” My father knelt down and carefully touched Marlowe’s doubled up diaphragm. Marlowe jumped and cried. “He’s wheezed and struggled to breathe so much that he’s pulled the muscles in his diaphragm, pour little guy. Get him up to the emergency room.”

All the way up to the emergency room with Marlowe crying and wheezing in his car seat, I kept thinking what I crummy mother I was—I didn’t even know when my own child had asthma and I endangered his life. It took my own father to tell me what to do. At the emergency room, they quickly treated him and told me what to do. 

I had felt alone that winter, and that year—and often very inadequate—as young parents often do. But I wasn’t alone; of course we are never alone. The Lord is always aware of us, and our needs; he uses those around us, then as now—family and friends—to help us meet the challenges of life.

Feeling Patriotic in an Anti-American Atmosphere

Being a soldier or a soldier’s wife during the Vietnam War was not easy. The war was not popular and many looked down on soldiers as easy scapegoats. No one knows why the soldiers became so unpopular, but from the war being unpopular, the soldiers soon became disliked and then called baby-killers. Before long soldiers were being advised to change into civilian clothes before flying home so they wouldn’t be targets of protests.

Was became the short-haired military men stood out so much from the usual long-haired hippies who weren’t in the military, that it was obvious that they were in the army? Even the non-hippies wore hair much longer than the military men. Everyone who watched the Vietnam War on TV saw the atrocities and they blamed the soldiers they saw nearby because they couldn’t accuse the ones they saw on TV. 

While Ed was in Vietnam the first time, I stayed home in Bountiful expecting our first child in 1967. I went to the University of Utah for one quarter, and I felt the anti-war animosity indirectly. Everyone seemed friendly until they found out my husband was serving in Vietnam. Then the hostility about the war came out. The Tet Offensive occurred early in 1968 which was a military success, but a propaganda failure. That was when the anti-war sentiment changed from just the college campuses and hippies to other Americans.  I had never felt totally “apart” from the rest of society, but after that it was obvious that I was different. I can’t explain it; I can’t describe it; but I felt it. The only time I felt accepted was when I met with the “Waiting Wives Club” a group of women whose husbands were serving in Vietnam. 

It was worse the second time Ed served in Vietnam in 1970-71 and I was alone with three children under three years. I remember the apartment complex I was in having a summer party and I was the only one not invited, because as one of the neighbors explained, “You just wouldn’t fit in.” I was in a ward of mostly older families and I felt like every sound my three little ones made in church brought a lot of censure because they were the only children there.  So I spent most Sundays in the Church hallway trying to wrestle three little ones, feeling as though we were nuisances in the ward. I’ll never forget one older lady (her son was my age), who saw me in the hall and put her arms around me. “I had six children and my husband was in the bishopric and the stake presidency. I spent many years walking these halls with little ones. My heart goes out to you.” I’ve never forgotten her kindness and compassion. 

The war was even more unpopular, and protests were much more vocal by then. The war had spread unofficially into Laos and Cambodia, and everyone kept hoping the war would end “soon,” but it didn’t look like it ever would.  I felt everyone hated the war—and the soldiers and their families who were reminders of the war.

Halfway through Ed’s year’s second tour, I was able to meet him for an “Rest and Recovery” in Hawaii--a week-long vacation from war. While we were on Waikiki Beach, “The Smothers’ Brothers,” our favorite musical group gave a free concert, especially for all the military that were there on "Rest and Recovery." We were excited to go it. 

It was my first live concert; I was so thrilled to see the Smothers’ Brothers and hear them sing. It was an open concert on the grass and we went early to get close seats. I had a really nice camera that Ed had bought while he was in Vietnam, and I used it to take good pictures of them performing. We enjoyed their performance and the music so much.

The Smothers’ Brothers were very popular, but their show had been controversial. Some of the satirical jokes on their show on race, religion, censorship and the war had been considered to be anti-government and disturbed CBS, their network. Their show was cancelled.  However on that summer day on Waikiki where their music and jokes rang out to thousands of military members and their wives and girlfriends, none of that was apparent. The Smothers Brothers kept telling the military how much they appreciated the work they were doing. They said their father had been in the military and they had been military brats until their father had been killed as a Japanese POW in World War II. 

How ironic that some performers who had been blackballed because of anti-war jokes entertained and praised the soldiers who most Americans reviled and spat upon! Young men the same age as the soldiers in their audience sang and joked to them and made the soldiers feel at home in an America that rejected them! Other performers like Bob Hope performed in Vietnam, and lifted their spirit during the war; that was important! The Smothers' Brothers performed to soldiers on R & R with their wives and made them feel proud to be soldiers; and that was just as important.

Smothers' Brothers performing on Waikiki Beach

  

It was one of the few times during the Vietnam War that I felt proud to be a military spouse; one of the few times that I sensed Ed’s service, and my support was valuable. I never forgot the concert—or the feeling the Smothers’ Brothers gave me during years when I felt America resented my husband’s service.  God Bless the Smothers’ Brothers.

My "Little Women" Doll

I was named after Little Women’s “Beth.” As many of you know, she was the very good, self-sacrificing third daughter of the March family in Louise May Alcott’s civil war book. In 1949, my parents gave me a Madame Alexander “Beth” doll for Christmas. I can remember how excited I was that Christmas we spent at my Grandmother Hansen’s house in Monroe, Utah, and I saw that big doll (15 inches high) under the Christmas tree. I thought it was the most heavenly present I could ever get. 

The years prior to that had been very hard financially for my family; however, things had looked up and I think my family splurged that Christmas. I know that doll must have cost a lot more than any other gift I ever got for Christmas before or after that year. 

1949 Madame Alexander "Beth" doll

I loved that doll. It was special to me because it had my name, and as I got older, my mother told me about the story of Little Women and their life so long ago. I always took very good care of my doll. I never got her dirty, or acted like she was a baby doll. I knew she was special. As I became older and read the story, I identified, not with “Beth,” but with her sister, Jo, the author of the story. 

That doll was very precious, and as our family grew to seven children, that doll became a symbol of a time when I got a very valuable and expensive present.

When I was nine-years-old my mother had her first bout with breast cancer, and money became very tight. I shared a room with my two younger sisters and had very little privacy, but my doll was a symbol of something precious that was my own. I adored that doll and took very good care of her. I didn’t play with her a lot, but always made sure her clothes were clean, neat and that she looked very nice. She sat on a special place on my bed.

As I grew, I didn’t play with the “Beth” doll, but I always made sure she was in her special place. I always made sure her hair was neat and the little hair net kept it from being messy. I never lost her shoes or socks, and never let my younger sisters play with her. I told them she was not a “play doll” but a “collectible” doll—one you just looked at. 

When I was 14-years-old my mother had her second bout with breast cancer, and she was never really well again. As the oldest girl in the family, I had to take over a lot of the housework, and the care of the younger children, including my youngest sister, (I was 13-years-old when she was born). 

I worked part time after school my senior year to earn enough money to go away to college. I finally had my own bedroom, and my “Beth” doll said in a place of honor on my hope chest, as I dreamed of what I would become in the future. More and more I knew I wanted to write like Jo in Little Women. I also was very rebellious as a senior in high school, and as I looked at the “Beth” doll, I thought how I couldn’t be like her. I felt like I was letting my mother down, not being her ideal “Beth” as she’d dreamed I would be; but I also knew I had to be myself.

I went to Utah State University the fall after I graduated from high school; I left my bedroom to younger siblings, and all my belongings, too. I was so excited about my new adventures; I never wondered what would happen to my precious “Beth” doll.

When I finished my first year of college and moved back home, no one knew where my “Beth” doll was. It was gone. My youngest sister remembered playing with it, but nothing more than that. No one knew what had happened to it. My mother was dying, and the house was in turmoil. I became engaged the summer after I moved home, and got married that fall. I never did find my “Beth” doll or what had happened to it. 

My first Danish doll

I began collecting dolls after I got married, when my brother was serving a mission in Denmark and sent me a Danish doll. Since then I’ve bought many dolls from many countries, including a complete set of eight inch Madame Alexander “Little Women” dolls. I even have dolls from all over the world showing women doing different work. 

But I’ve always told my children about my conflict about being named Beth, but feeling like Jo. (Although, in the book Beth catches scarlet fever, and dies; in Hawaii, I caught scarlet fever and was very sick, especially when I developed glomerular nephritis. However, unlike the fictional Beth, I recovered.) I recently took four of my granddaughters to see the musical “Little Women” at Centerpoint Theater and told them the story of my name. 

Several years ago, my oldest son in Seattle had twins, a boy and a girl. He told me they’d named the girl after me. They’d named her Josephine—but planned on calling her Jo—my alter-ego. We had a good laugh because I know that’s the closest I’ll come to having any grandchildren named after me. 

My current "Jo" Doll

My current "Beth" doll