I Recognized Death's Shadow

My life changed when I was nine years old. I learned about death and suddenly my life was no longer secure, but frightening and uneasy. I realized how easily death could change the rhythms of my life; forever afterwards I waited for death’s scythe to strike. 

Mom & Will 1953

In February of that year—1953—my mother gave birth to my youngest brother, Bill. During her pregnancy she had had strange unsettling, prophetic dreams that the baby would not be able to speak, but quack like a duck. This bothered her and she prayed continually that the baby would be all right. She felt that something was wrong with his mouth and that he wouldn’t be able to speak correctly. One night after she had prayed for weeks that he’d be all right, she suddenly had a feeling of peace come over her and she knew he would be okay. When he was born, he was “tongue-tied” and the doctor had to cut the tissue that constricted his tongue. Afterwards he was fine. My mother felt that her dreams had warned her of difficulties in his development that her prayers had prevented, and that his “tongue-tied” problems were all that were left of these developmental abnormalities. [i]

Beth & Darl in Monticello 1949

Afterwards, my mother started having prophetic “warnings” that something was going to happen to people. She would be doing something and suddenly look down and she would see a coffin; soon after she would hear of someone’s death. Mother had always had a special sense of ESP, but previously it was always to help others. When I was five years old we were living on a dry farm 12 miles out of Monticello, Utah. One day I was playing out in the fields with my older brothers when I cut my foot deeply on a metal corner of a farm cart. Even though Mother was at the house somehow she knew I was hurt, where I was and reached us almost immediately after it happened. She was able to stop the bleeding, and carried me back to the house. She quickly drove us to Monticello to the doctor for stitches, but he was in Colorado for the day, so the nurse wrapped up the deep cut so it looked like I had a club foot; I still have a scar.

Ingeborg & sons

Another time in Monticello my mother’s older sister Ingeborg was dying of breast cancer in Brigham City. Because there was no telephone out on the farm where we lived, Mother was worried we wouldn’t get word of Ingeborg’s death in time to drive to Brigham City. But right after Ingeborg died, she appeared to Mother and told mother that she had died; Mother got up and had everything ready so they could leave immediately when they received the telegram from Monticello later that day.[ii]

However, these “warnings” of death that mother foresaw after Bill’s birth were disturbing. She told me about them, and said that because they served no purpose, but only upset her, she prayed and prayed they would go away.

But a foreshadowing—an unease that something was wrong—never left her. During her pregnancy she had noticed a lump in her breast, but she ignored it. She did not want to consider the implication that it might be cancer because her older sister Ingeborg had died of breast cancer, and her younger sister Ruth had also lost a breast to cancer. Just the thought that she, too, might have the disease was too frightening.

However, as much as she wanted to deny it, in the beginning of the summer she finally gave in to my father’s plea to go to the doctor to see about the lump in her breast. At that time the standard procedure was to do a biopsy and if the biopsy showed cancer, they would do a mastectomy immediately, without bringing the patient out of anesthesia. I hadn’t even known my mother was going in for a biopsy that morning, but that afternoon my father told me she had breast cancer and they were afraid she was going to die.

At first I thought Dad was just exaggerating as he usually did. Aunt Ruth, who was closest to Mother in age and who had lived with us a few times, had had breast cancer, but she was still alive—in fact she was presently serving a mission in Denmark. Yet I also remembered Aunt Ingeborg, who had died of breast cancer a few years earlier. My grandmother Hendrickson, mother’s mother, had just died, but they had said she had heart problems as well as cancer. I couldn’t see why mother had to die right away like Dad was saying.

But late that evening our neighbor Mrs. Mann came by after Dad had gone back to the hospital. She hugged me tightly as she told us how she had been sitting with mother in the hospital after the surgery. She said Mother had suddenly stopped breathing and turned gray. She said Mother had died! Mrs. Mann had panicked, screamed and called for the nurses. Just then one of the general authorities walked in the room. He said he felt that someone in that room needed a blessing and he immediately administered to Mother. Mother gasped and began to breathe just as the nurse came rushing in.

The nurse yelled for help as she said mother was having a problem with the after-effects of the anesthesia because of her asthma. Mrs. Mann said a bunch of nurses and doctors surrounded mom and worked on her and she recovered consciousness. During that time the general authority quietly left. I don’t know who the general authority was who administered to mom was, but Mrs. Mann and others told me later of the veracity of the miracle that brought mother back to life. Mrs. Mann also said the general authority promised Mother that she would have one more child, (and she did, Ann, born three and a half years later, a year before she had a second recurrence of the breast cancer—in the other breast.)[iii]

Mother was in the hospital for several weeks, and we couldn’t visit her. I worried, imagining what had happened to her—what she looked like. What did a person look like who had died? Was her skin still white and ghostly? Why wouldn’t they let us see her? Was she deformed and sick? Would she ever be well again? Would she always be in bed?

When Mom finally came home, Dad was always telling us not to bother her—to stay away from her because she was too weak, too sick. He was always reminding me to work extra hard to help mother, or she would get sicker and die. I would look at Mom as she lay sleeping and wonder if my real mother had died and this frail ghost had taken her place.

Mother never really recovered from that first radical mastectomy. Because the cancer was so large, they had removed a lot of muscle and breast tissue and her chest was concave. For a long time she was so weak and her “spirit” was gone. She laughed and smiled, but she was different. She was very self-conscious of her body and felt she was deformed.

More than that, I think she accepted the realization of her eventual death. She didn’t say it; she didn’t need to. I saw it in her face and in the quiet acceptance of her sorrow and pain.

Mother didn’t die for 11 more years after much more suffering and pain. But at nine years of age, I recognized the spirit of death that had entered my life that summer. I always remembered that time as when I recognized death’s shadow

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[i] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 58

[ii] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 53

[iii] “History of Mary Jennie Hendrickson,” by Coleen Hansen Baird, July 1994, page 55

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

My Memories of Thanksgivings

Ed and I got married on the day before Thanksgiving 48 years ago in the Logan Temple. We joked at the time that it was so we would always have something to be thankful for in the future.  The one thing I have not been grateful about is that we never go out to dinner for our anniversary because it is always Thanksgiving.

 Thanksgiving has been a special time for us as we remember our years together as well as all the other blessings we give thanks for at this time of years. We have been truly blessed with health, adequate money for our needs, children, grandchildren and one great-grandchild, and opportunities to travel all over the world. The blessings of the gospel are so precious and they enrich our lives and help us appreciate all the other blessings.

Growing up in Bountiful, my dad worked at Hill Field and he always invited military men who had no family to Thanksgiving dinner with us and we always had lots of extended family to eat dinner with us. However, for Ed and I, Thanksgiving dinner has always been a more nuclear family affair.

Part of that is because for over 22 years we lived in the military and never lived near family. So Thanksgiving dinner was just Ed, I and our children. I don’t recall us sharing dinner with friends very often although I am sure we did a few times. It was always more a personal family time.

Another tradition also made our Thanksgivings different--there is a military tradition that the commander always eats dinner with the troops in the mess hall on Thanksgiving Day. So Ed would dress up in his dress blues and we’d go to the mess hall each Thanksgiving Day and eat dinner with Ed’s troops. It was a formal occasion and all Ed’s troops would greet us as we mingled with them.

This was not a fun social occasion, mind you, but a command performance! So Ed wanted his own Thanksgiving dinner afterwards. When we came home from the mess hall I would roast a turkey and make all the fixings for a Thanksgiving Dinner for Ed, I and the children! The first few years I thought he was joking about me making a big Thanksgiving after eating at the mess hall, but he wasn’t—he had to have his own homemade turkey dinner.

Eating at the Mess Hall

As he advanced in rank and we continued to go to dinners with his troops, I couldn’t convince him that THAT dinner was thanksgiving dinner; he insisted that NO—that was duty. Dressing in dress blues and talking politics with all his troops and being on command was NOT Thanksgiving! So I continued to cook a Thanksgiving dinner after enjoying Thanksgiving dinner I had not made in the mess hall.

 Ed loved Thanksgiving. He could feast and feast and watch five days of football. For me it was drudgery! I spent days in the kitchen preparing and cleaning up while everyone else enjoyed the holiday. Ed could not understand why it became my least favorite holiday. Especially during the 20 years I worked full time, I dreaded all the time I worked during my “time off,” cooking and cleaning for Thanksgiving and never got a moment’s rest. I was almost glad it was over and I could get back to my paid job.

Marlowe, My Christmas Baby

There were several times I had a reprieve from cooking a Thanksgiving Dinner. One was when Ed was in Vietnam during his two tours. Both times I was pregnant with our sons. Our first, Marlowe,  was born three weeks after Thanksgiving so I really had a lot to be grateful for; the other was born three months after Thanksgiving. I don’t recall having a big Thanksgiving Dinner with my Dad and siblings in Utah either time.

Ed Leaves for Vietnam Nov 1970

The year Ed left for his 2^nd tour of Vietnam was rough; he left for Vietnam several weeks before Thanksgiving (when I was pregnant with my third child, and my oldest had not yet turned three). I remember I was so overwhelmed and discouraged about being alone with my little ones for a year while Ed was flying helicopters in a war zone. However by Thanksgiving I had realized how grateful I was for all the blessings I did have; I did have the spirit of Thanksgiving that year—thankful for all that I had instead of complaining of what I didn’t have lasted me all year.

Two other times were when I was in the hospital on Thanksgiving. One time I was in Alabama and had just had a mastectomy and was recovering, but still in the hospital. My brother Gary and his wife Patty had Thanksgiving with my family at home (I have no idea who made dinner). I was just so grateful they caught the breast cancer early. The other time I was in the hospital in Sacramento, and again my brother Gary and Patty came to share Thanksgiving with my family. I was/am grateful for family who support us in our trials. 

Eventually I realized how petty I was in resenting all the work involved in preparing a big Thanksgiving dinner. I also realized I was always going to be cooking a big Thanksgiving dinner, so I cut back in many ways, and enjoyed the season. Ed helped by preparing the potatoes (one of my most hated jobs) and made his favorite recipe, sweet potatoes. I have bought the pies, instead of killing myself making them. I’ve bought rolls, (who cares if they are not homemade), and often cooked a turkey breast rather than a whole turkey. I’ve even bought salads. But I refuse to compromise on one thing; I refuse to make stovetop stuffing instead of the real thing.

After we retired from the military and moved back to Utah, we joined in with my dad and the extended family again in large Thanksgiving dinners, but again, Ed still wanted his own roasted turkey at home so he could have leftovers. So often we would go to a big extended family feast and afterwards, we would come home and I would put in a turkey. Since my dad passed away, we haven’t had the large extended family dinners, and again it just had dinner with whichever of our married children and their families lived nearby, and Bryan.

Ed reading to Aiden, Thanksgiving 2010 in Chicago

Last year we did something we have never done in all 48 years; we flew to Chicago to spend dinner with Diana, Jason and her new baby, Aiden in Chicago. It was truly the first year I can remember I did not roast a turkey. We left Bryan in Utah so he ate Thanksgiving dinner with friends and with Athena’s family. [The last eighteen months  we have “abandoned” Bryan for every holiday in the year (plus two of his birthdays) while we were in Los Angeles for Ed’s lung transplant, in Australia and New Zealand, in Chicago with Diana, and in Seattle with Marlowe and his family. Don’t feel sorry for him, though; he had four different invitations for Thanksgiving when he publicized he was alone for Thanksgiving and didn’t mention Athena being here]. 

Although I have quit griping about always roasting a turkey no matter where we have Thanksgiving dinner (except for last year at Diana’s house in Chicago), I realize how grateful I am for all our bountiful blessings—material, spiritual and emotional. I am grateful for my family, being able to be together as a family at Thanksgiving and if we cannot be together then, being able to talk to them often; being able to have all we have to eat, even if I have to cook it. I am grateful that they all have jobs; that we live in a free world. 

And someday, before I die, I am going to thoroughly enjoy Thanksgiving like men do—by not preparing any of it, and just relaxing and doing what I want all day!