My Monstrous Miller Hair

I love to do genealogy. I especially enjoy seeing photos of my ancestors to see how they looked when they were younger. 

However, I don’t have to look at photos of my ancestors to see them; all I have to do is look in my mirror—I can see my ancestors’ in my horrible hair. For I have the “Horrible Hansen Hair.”

My Mother and her naturally curly hair

As far back as I can remember, I was cursed with the “Horrible Hansen Hair!” 

Technically it isn’t Hansen Hair—it is Miller Hair as it is from my father’s mother’s Miller side of the family. 

My mother on the other hand, had beautiful, thick, naturally curly hair; while mine was thin, fine and absolutely straight. I can recall my mother trying to do something with my hair, but it defied all her efforts to train it. So she would end up braiding it. Then she would look at my father and say, “She has your mother’s Miller hair.” 

For my father’s mother was a Miller from Southern Utah. They were very proud of their heritage as pioneers who had been the first teachers, school superintendents, and educated people in the area where my father grew up. And they let everyone know about it.   But they also had the finest, thinnest, wimpiest hair in the West. And it started to recede from a man’s hairline when he turned 21-years-old.

There was nothing that could be done with the “Miller Hair” as my mother discovered. She took me to her sister, who was a beautician, but it wouldn’t take a perm very well, and then it frizzed instead. If you managed to curl it by sleeping all night on curlers, they immediately drooped and fell out. My mother finally gave up and I lived with braids for years.

My Grandmother Hansen

My Grandmother Hansen (from whose Miller blood I inherited the monstrous hair from) had hair that was thin, but she worked hard to keep it looking good. She was a very elegant lady, who dressed to the nines, and she wouldn’t be caught dead with her hair not dressed perfectly. All I had to do was look at her sisters with their thinning, fly-away unkempt hair to know what mine would look like if I didn’t work as hard as my grandmother.

 I am pretty sure my grandmother went to a beautician regularly, just because of who she was—a proud Miller, the captain of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers chapter, and very involved in town life.

By the time I was a teenager, I had decided that perms and short hair were the only way for me to go (long straight hair was not popular then). I couldn’t afford to go to a beautician to get a perm so I’d buy a perm and have my sister, mother, friend, or anyone I could to give it to me. Even when I married and Ed had to go into the military and we were living on air and dreams, I told him that perms had to be budgeted in; I couldn’t live without them, even if I had to give them to myself. 

All my life I’ve fought with my hair—with perms and keeping it short, and cursing it. All I had to do was look at my dad with his balding thin hair, and it would remind me what my hair was like and I’d go get another perm. I tried various hairstyles, but I had a round face, so I needed height on top, so leaving it long and straight or pulling it back into a ponytail just didn’t seem an option.

My straight-haired daughter and granddaughters

 Out of my five children, only one of my children, (unfortunately a daughter) inherited my hair, but long straight hair is popular, so she just goes with it. It has more body than mine, and she can do more with it than I could, so she doesn’t stress about it. Both of her daughters inherited it, (de ja vu), but they keep in long and trimmed nicely. None of my sons inherited my father’s baldness (thank goodness).

My mother's mother--Grandmother Hendrickson

My mother’s mother, my Grandmother Hendrickson, had thick hair, but I don’t know if it was straight or curly, as she died when I was about six years old. But I do know that in every photo I have of her, her hair never turned gray. It stayed glossy and dark even to her death in her sixties. That gave me hope that maybe I wouldn’t go gray early, either. (My mother died at 48 years old, so I didn’t know if her hair would have turned gray or not.) 

But I began to hope. Maybe if I had one bad hair gene, I’d be compensated with one good hair gene. And it worked. Here I am almost 70 years old, and I have very few gray hairs. My hair isn’t dark so the gray doesn’t show up. 

Maybe there is some justice in life’s genetic hair lottery after all.

The Courage Not to Gossip

                 My mother had a very soft, gentle voice, similar to that of Marilyn Monroe or Jackie Kennedy. She never yelled or raised her voice, which I always admired because I have a loud voice that carries a long way. In addition, my mother never criticized or complained about others, and NEVER gossiped about others; in fact she often complimented people and said kind things to and about others.

I recall that she went out of her way to be kind to those that others looked down upon or those who others felt were not important. She did not go to every baby or wedding shower, but if it was for someone who wasn’t “popular” or well-known, she would always be there. Perhaps it was because she had grown up as part of a poor, “immigrant” family whom others looked down on, she was very aware of those who did not fit in or who were different, and always tried to make them feel welcome.

                 Another thing my mother never allowed is gossip. If we nit-picked or complained about others, or gossiped, she would kindly but gently stop us and remind us that we shouldn’t do that. She was a very non-confrontational person who did not like arguing or disagreements, but one of the few times I saw her stand up for herself and disagree with someone, it was about gossiping.

Her visiting teachers were at our house, and somehow they began to gossip about another member (or situation) in the ward. Mother tried to turn the conversation back to the lesson or to something else, but the one sister kept talking about the gossip.

                Finally my mother gently but firmly told the sisters that she did not want to hear the gossip, and asked a question about something else. I was so amazed that my mild mother could be so blunt, especially when she was not gossiping—just listening. But I realized she was just living what she had taught us—she did not want to be around people who were gossiping.

              I thought of what President Thomas S. Monson said in a general conference talk in April 2009, “May I speak first about the courage to refrain from judging others. Oh, you may ask, ‘Does this really take courage?’ And I would reply that I believe there are many times when refraining from judgment—or gossip or criticism, which are certainly akin to judgment—takes an act of courage.”

My Mother Made Life Fun

My mother made life fun. We didn’t have a lot of money, but wherever we lived it was a place of enchantment. My earliest memory is of a smooth shiny floor in a narrow room. I was a very young child and my siblings and I took turns sliding across it on socks. Sometimes we’d take a towel, lay on it and ride it like a sleigh. It was a typical cleaning day, and after Mother had waxed the long, narrow living room floor, we helped her polish it by sliding across it. It was characteristic of Mother that she made a chore fun for us to share in and made our simple life amusing.

Our home in Monroe, Utah

 Mother made chores entertaining and work engaging, even in my earliest memories. There are photos of us in the front yard of the house in Monroe, Utah where we lived when I was three years old—with a big garden next door, with friends and relatives nearby.  I remember helping in the house and in the garden, but I don’t remember it being work.

 I do remember the house—the big living room, with the kitchen in the other end of the house. Next to the kitchen were stairs leading down to a dark, earthen-floored cellar which terrified me. I remember the rectangular hanging fluorescent light in the stairwell leading down to the fruit cellar—it reeked of a butcher’s store, a laboratory, or some clinical, unsafe inhospitable utilitarian place—not a portion of someone’s house. I’m sure Mother must have told stories about the fruit cellar to keep me out of it and those stories made the cellar such a scary place, just as her games made the living room a fun place.

Our yard with garden, me 2nd from right in front

My parent’s room led off the back of the kitchen, but I have no idea where my older brothers’ room was. My room was a tiny alcove off the living room with sunlight waking me up and mother’s bedtime stories wrapping me up in comfort. I remember setting the table, cleaning up after dinner, taking out trash, making my bed, all the common childhood chores, but they were done with Mother, singing and laughing. She made life fun, telling stories of her working during the depression, racing her sisters to the end of the row of crops they were weeding or picking.

Another memory of the living room in that house is of it darkened, and quiet. My brothers and I had measles and we were kept all together in that room so Mother could nurse us together. The windows were draped to protect our eyes and noise was shut out so it wouldn’t hurt our ears. I can’t remember how long we were sick, but I remember being excited to be included with my brothers instead of being kept apart as a younger sister. I must have not have been too sick, because I recall Mother having a difficult time keeping me still. I didn’t want to lie in bed. I wanted to do things, to play with my toys, but Mother insisted I couldn’t; I must lie still like my brothers.

My oldest brother was especially sick; I know he lost his hearing in one ear. I don’t think my other brother being harmed as much by the measles, but I doubt he was such a trial to mother as I was as an active three-year-old. There was not much you could do for measles in 1947 except isolate them and encourage them to rest, although most were probably so sick they probably just wanted to sleep.

Finally I remember Mother came up with a plan to entertain me; she decided to paint a picture of me. So I tried to hold still while she painted my portrait and told me stories. She only had a piece of particle board to paint on, but she painted me as long as I could keep quiet. Finally we got well and got on with our lives.

Years later I found that old scrap of a painting. It had never been finished, but was just a face painted on part of an uneven board. But as I looked at the toddler in the painting, I realized Mother had not painted me with the measles that I had suffered with. She had refused to scar my face with them, but painted me as she wanted to see me— happy and free from illness. She captured me as an eternally happy child in a home where we shined floors by sliding on them, and listened to stories that took the pain away.

A Piano = A Happy Family

The piano is a musical instrument in which felt-covered hammers, operated from a keyboard, strike the metal strings. It was a variation of the harpsichord and was invented in the 1700s in Italy. Its history is interesting, but to me it exemplifies art, music, literature and grace. It is a symbol of refinement and elegance.

My maternal grandfather Peter Hendrickson was from a well-to-do family in Denmark. He was a talented artist and won a gold watch in an art contest, which displeased his father who felt art was a foolish hobby. However, when Peter joined the Mormon Church, which was very unpopular, that was unforgivable. Peter left Denmark and went to America.

Peter did not make a lot of money in America, although he was attractive and very popular. He writes in his journal:  

Peter Hendrickson

“Now I was in the thirties and for means could marry anytime, when another woman came into my life . . .  As I was in doubt about this woman, if she were the one I had been waiting for to this time, I decided to ask the Lord, and it was shown me in a dream, in such a way that there could be no mistake.  The right one had come.  It was her or no other.  My dream was:  I found myself standing just inside of a large room.  On the opposite wall were two large pictures covering the whole wall from floor to ceiling.  The one picture represented a happy family.  Around a table was seated a mother with seven or eight children, all busy sewing, reading, and conversing.  Looking at the other picture, I saw standing, a lone man, a bachelor, a likeness of which I, a few years previous, had seen in a stage play, ‘Sowing the Wind.’  As I looked from one picture to the other, I noticed a person standing by my side who addressed me saying, ‘Choose for yourself,’ and the dream was over.  I understood the dream. We were married shortly after, [and] I could see I had got the right one.  A number of years after, I could daily see a picture like the one on the wall, a mother and children.” 

In their family life, one of the most important things was a piano. My Aunt Ruth said that in the early years of their marriage, even before they had a piano, they had a cardboard keyboard where they taught their young children how to play the piano. Although as immigrants with ten children and very little money, the arts, including playing the piano, was an essential part of their lives. Their family life surrounded the piano where they played it and sang around it, and it echoed their love of music and their faith.

In my family, the piano played a very central role also. My mother played the piano and we often sang as a family around it. I loved the sheet music that she had that went back to the 1920s and also included current songs such as “That Doggie in the Window,” and “Che Sera Sera.” We also had a canary that warbled when we sang or when we played the piano.

My mother felt that developing our talents was very important and encouraged us all to play the piano, or if that was not our choice, to dance or paint. My younger sister, Coleen, played the piano, but I chose dancing lessons. We were not well to do, so my mother, who was a gifted artist, traded her paintings for lessons. After my mother died, Coleen made sure that my younger sister, Janet, went to piano lessons and my youngest brother, Will, got tap-dancing lessons. Janet hated piano lessons and often skipped out on them and eventually quit. 

After I had children, having a piano became a priority to me. I wanted to make sure my children could play the piano as my mother and sister had. In 1973 we were living in El Paso and I discovered a neighbor who had a piano for sale. It was an antique upright piano which had once been painted bright pink and resided in a rowdy saloon. The people who were selling it had stripped it, completely redone the wires and transformed it; it was now a sedate rehabilitated brown. We bought it; because it was so large we had to roll it home.

After we purchased this piano, I decided that I was going to learn to play the piano myself. I took piano lessons for a few years and I practiced diligently. I learned to sight-read, but I struggled to learn the rhythm. My great accomplishment was to play “Silent Night.” Finally I realized I did not enjoy playing the piano; I was determined to learn to play it because I “should” be able to play it—to be more like my mother and accompany my family while they sang. At that point I decided to give it up. I am grateful I learned to sight-read music and could help my children with their lessons; but at heart, I still love to dance more than play the piano.

For a long time a part of me felt I had let my family down because I couldn’t play the piano. When Diana or Bryan were competing in vocal competitions, and had to get someone to accompany them, I would sit in the audience thinking, “I should have learned to play the piano so I could accompany her/him.” But in my heart I knew it wasn’t possible! It was an impossible, impractical idea. I wasn’t a pianist and didn’t really want to be—except to fulfill an unrealistic expectation.

Marlowe In Christmas Carol

However, the reformed piano we purchased in El Paso became our friend and companion for over 26 years. We moved it all over the country. In moving to Hawaii a forklift sheared off the top of the pallet and barely missed our piano! Then we had to have a heater installed in it to keep it from molding because of the high humidity in Hilo! It sailed with us to Italy and back without a scratch, but in our 100-year-old house at Ft. Sheridan, they couldn’t get it up the stairs, so it sat in the entryway on the first floor, and whenever the children practiced the piano, the people in the other side of the duplex could hear them. It followed us all over the world and then home to Utah. I don’t know which astonished it the most, our children’s raucous practice or its wandering since it had left its saloon in El Paso.

It enjoyed Athena’s diligent practicing, Marc’s never practicing, Diana’s talented playing and Bryan’s trying to practice. Athena has continued playing the piano. In Italy she played the piano for church; she has played piano for primary and for her own enjoyment. All of her children take piano lessons. 

Although Marlowe never took piano lessons (he played the trumpet, both marching band and jazz band), he can play the piano some. His daughter is taking piano lessons, and I’m sure his children will continue to take lessons and play very well.

That piano has heard more musical theater than any other genre; probably because four of our five children have performed primarily in musical theater. I couldn’t begin to list all the shows they have been in and practiced on that old upright—in Alabama, Italy, Chicago, and in Utah.

Diana

Athena and Diana were always playing while we sang around the piano; when the children were around the piano, it just rang with song--I doubt if it had more of a workout when it was in that old El Paso saloon. Diana taught voice lessons on it, and I loved to hear her sing day and night while she was at home. One of the things I miss the most now she is gone, is listening to her singing.

Diana is the most accomplished pianist in the family. While studying voice at Berkley College of Music she also took piano lessons. Since living in Chicago, Diana has taken organ lessons and has played the organ for church and she now teaches piano lessons.

A few years after we moved into our home in Utah, Ed’s mother gave us her nice new piano (for Diana to use) and we finally sold our old antique upright piano. Although we still use Grandma’s piano, it will eventually go to Diana. However, since Diana teaches piano lessons and sings with a singing group in Chicago, she has purchased a piano.

However, whenever I think of Diana’s talent, I know that she will eventually have a grand piano because her talent is a “grand piano talent.”

A piano is a symbol of refinement and elegance. Even though my grandparents and parents were poor, they felt that a piano was well-worth sacrificing for. They played it and wanted their children to play it. Even though I can’t play the piano, Ed and I felt that it is an essential part of our home, and we wanted our children to have the opportunity to play it. A piano is more than just a musical instrument. To me it was like the picture my grandfather had seen in his vision more than 115 years earlier of a happy family. . . “all busy sewing, reading, and conversing.” . . . and playing the piano. 

“The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air.”

~Kenneth Miller

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.