Manti

The Place Manti Has in Our Family History

The Deseret News this week featured an article about the Manti Temple, telling this famous story of Brigham Young and Warren S. Snow from 1877:

Standing on the southeast corner of the Manti Utah Temple site, Brigham Young told Warren S. Snow, “Here is the spot where the Prophet Moroni stood and dedicated this piece of land for a temple site, and that is the reason why the location is made here, and we can’t move it from this spot.”

This story in recent years has been cast into doubt by bloggers and historians alike who claim there is no official record of this ever happening.

Yet the story is told and retold, as it was in the Deseret News this week. It has been archived in Church publications for decades.

In fact, of all the records kept of the dedication of the Manti temple there is nothing to suggest that anything was “dedicated” before the temple was constructed.

Yet the story persists. Why?

Because it was put forward by Warren S. Snow, not the Church.

Historians have a bone or two to pick with Bishop Snow, Mayor Snow and General Snow, as he was known during his lifetime.

And yes – he is family.

He is one of the many illustrious sons of Gardner Snow, that grand patriarch of the Snow family.

The Snow family started joining the Church in the very early 1830s, and their experiences in Vermont, Kirtland, Far West and later, Nauvoo, led to pioneering the West.

Warren S. Snow is just one part of multiple Snow family members who founded, lived, and played a part in establishing Manti, Utah. Manti, and the temple built there, would over the generations come to play a big part for the Westovers, the Smiths, the Snows, the Riggs and the Quilter families.

Manti has always been and likely will always be a very small and remote place. But it looms large as a home, a gathering place and a sacred ground for many we call family.

To fully understand how this came to be we need to tell some stories of those early Manti pioneers who helped to make that temple possible.

~ A Little Manti History ~

Chief Walkara, also known as Walker, was born about 1808, along the Spanish Fork River in what is now Utah, one of five sons of a chief of the Timpanogos band.

Chief Wakara

Described as being over six feet tall and extremely strong, he was a successful warrior from a young age. His piercing eyes earned him the nickname “Hawk of the Mountains.”

While there are plenty of stories about his life it must be noted that Wakara was known for both good and bad things. Some historians have called him the most prolific horse stealer in history. Others call him a great peacemaker.

What there is to know about historians, whether the speak of a man like Chief Wakara or a man like Warren Stone, is that historians usually have some point they are trying to make.

I personally believe that history is best told through those who passed through it. In the case of both Wakara and Snow, they left us plenty on their own to think about.

Around the year 1845, before white settlers came to Utah, Chief Wakara had a dream.

This is an account he told that was recorded by a Mormon settler later:

“He died and his spirit went to heaven. He saw the lord s sitting upon a throne dressed in white. The Lord told him he could not stay, he had to return. Walker desired to stay but the Lord told him that he had to return to earth that there would come to him a race of white people that would be his friends and he must treat them kindly.”

When the Mormons did come Chief Walker met in council, along with 12 of his warriors, with Brigham Young and church leaders in the Salt Lake Valley.

These Indians had come to ask Brigham Young to send colonists into the Sanpitch Valley to teach the Indians how to build homes and till the soil.

During the proceedings of this council which convened on June 14, 1849, at Salt Lake City, Walker remarked “I was always friendly with the Mormons. I hear what they say and remember it. It is good to live like the Mormons and their children. I do not care about the land, but I want the Mormons to go and settle it.”

A scout team was sent in August and by fall fifty families were called to go to the valley to settle it. It would be the first settlement south of Provo.

They were led by experienced men who names mark the pages of early Church history. Men like Isaac Morley, Charles Shumway, and our own great-grandfathers, Gardner Snow and Albert Smith, were sent.

Upon arriving many felt that the Sanpitch Valley was indeed a blessed place.

Father Morley, as most of the settlers referred to him, pointed a prophetic finger to a hill rising in the distance and said, “There is the termination of our journey; in close proximity to that hill, God willing, we will build our city there.”

That hill would come to be known as Temple Hill, in time. It was recognized as early as 1850 as a special place and some claimed visions while arriving there.

A woman named Betsy Bradley, and her three-year-old son, Hyrum, saw a personage in white on a white horse mysteriously appear on the hill and then, just as mysteriously, he disappeared.

Bradley told about this mysterious appearance to everyone who desired to listen and through it one of the Sagas of the Sanpitch was born: Everyone said, “This personage dressed in white on the white horse is the same personage that constrained Father Morley to proclaim it a special place and that person is the Prophet Moroni!”

Orson F. Whitney, in his book Life of Heber C. Kimball, relates this story:

“In an early day when President Young and party were making the location of the settlement here, President Heber C. Kimball, prophesied that the day would come when a temple would be built on this hill. Some disbelieved and doubted the possibility of even making a settlement here. Brother Kimball said, “Well, it will be so, and more than that the rock will be quarried from that hill to build it with, and some of the stone from that quarry will be taken to help complete the Salt Lake Temple.”

All of this was widely known long before Warren Snow and Brigham Young climbed that hill in April of 1877.

By that time, the history of Manti, of Warren Snow, of Brigham Young, of the Ute Indians, and of the temple had already covered a lot of ground.

~ Gardner Snow, A Patriarch ~

Gardner Snow moved to Manti in 1850, a little after the original parties led by his good friend Isaac Morley had selected Manti’s hill as the base for the community.

He was, at this point in his life, 57 years of age, an experienced veteran of the early LDS Church experience. He was seasoned. He had served as a missionary, Bishop, and a member of the Quorum of the Seventy.

He experienced the temple for the first time in Kirtland and later lived in Far West. He was chased, with many others, by mobs out of Missouri, and later had his home and possessions burned to the ground while living at Morley’s Settlement in Illinois.

In Nauvoo he received his temple endowments and later moved to Council Bluffs, where he resumed his work as Bishop.

When he was finally allowed to come to Utah he was assigned to Sanpete County, where he worked as a councilman and then later as a probate judge for many years.

By avocation, Gardner Snow was a sheepherder in Manti. He was in Manti less than a year when his partner, Sarah Sawyer Hastings Snow, passed away at the age of 60.

Gardner Snow

During their life together Gardner and Sarah had 9 children – six of them sons. Of those six sons only three survived into extended maturity.

James Chauncey Snow (our great grandfather), like his father, had experience in early Church history and came around the same time as his father to Utah. He would be a Stake President in Provo and live a long life of family and church service.

Warren Stone Snow, who you will read more about below, would become a Presiding Bishop in Utah and a controversial figure in the history of Manti.

George Washington Snow came with his brothers to Utah in the early 1850s, settling near their father in Manti. He would work for some years as a cooper in Manti, where he also studied the law and later served as a lawyer, the prosecutor of Sanpete County and in various elected public roles for years.

All of these Snow men were deeply embedded in Church and public service in Central Utah.

Their histories are all public record. In their various fields of service they touched the lives and many and were known by generations of Manti citizens.

Gardner Snow was especially well thought of, much like his friend Isaac Morley, because they were early church members who knew the Prophet and had experienced the persecutions of the early Church experience.

All of these men would die before connections with the Westover, Smith, Riggs and Quilter families were made.

It is curious to contemplate how their passions for the temple and getting it completed in Manti during their lifetimes would come to be meaningful for their later descendants.

~ Albert Smith in Manti ~

Albert Smith’s connection to the Westover family comes through is granddaughter, Mary Ann Smith, who married my great-grandfather, Arnold Westover.

If there is any individual representative of the 19th century Mormon experience, it is Albert Smith.

He joined the Church in 1835, lived in Missouri and Western Illinois, suffering from the persecution and loss of those places before the Nauvoo period.

Like many others, he relocated to Nauvoo and was in the same ward as Joseph Smith – in fact, he knew the Prophet well.

Albert was friends with several individuals known in Church history, notably Wilford Woodruff, and he would, in time, become acquainted with others who played important roles in pioneering Manti.

While living in Nauvoo, Albert served a mission, returned home to find his family in crisis due to the scandals of John C. Bennett, and he helped to construct the Nauvoo temple.

Albert and his family were among the first company to leave Nauvoo and was at Mt. Pisgah when Brigham Young called for service in the Mormon Battalion.

Albert served, along with his 17-year-old son, Azariah, the entire year. They backtracked to Utah from California, arriving just after the Saints first got there in the summer of 1847.

He farmed his allotted acreage in the Salt Lake Valley, and it was on his land that the miracle of the seagulls took place, an event he recorded in detail in his journal.

With many others Albert and family were called to move to Sanpete County.

Albert and his wife established a farm and used their home for the first several years to host the first dramatic productions held in Manti. They were very involved in the community and Albert dutifully recorded it all in his journals.

For all his Mormon experience and his faithfulness, Albert never held high position in the LDS Church. In time he would embrace plural marriage, albeit reluctantly.

For more than 40 years Albert steadfastly built the Kingdom of his faith, commenting here and there in his journal of both his experiences and his opinions of the pioneer experience.

The Manti temple, for him, represented many things.

What he would do over the forty years it took to build that temple in Manti should be an inspiration for all of us who call ourselves his grandchildren.

His quiet, in-the-background life of service stands in contrast to a man he would share family with in the generations to come.

That man’s name is Warren Stone Snow.

~ Warren S. Snow – A Complicated Man ~

The Snow family of Manti has a long history in the LDS faith.

In fact, they were one of the most unique families in early church history with the likes of Lorenzo Snow, Eliza R. Snow, Erastus Snow, Gardner Snow, James Chauncey Snow and Warren S. Snow among their famous numbers.

Their history and exploits as a family during the rise of the Church in the 19th century was so great that one Congressman, Charles B. Landis, in a speech made in 1900, declared the Snow family “the most consistent Mormons in the whole bunch”.

But Warren S. Snow was different from his famous father, brothers and cousins.

Warren S. Snow

His foundation of faith was indeed built in his youth while attending early church gatherings in the Mormon Barn, as it was called, of his grandfather, Levi Snow, in Chesterfield, Vermont.

But his experiences as a young man serving in security capacities for the Church seeded a conflict within him that colored nearly all of his later experiences as a church leader.

He was there – and close to the Prophet Joseph Smith and his family – when the Prophet was murdered in 1844.

In fact, in recorded talks given in church conferences not long after the Martyrdom, Warren referred to the bodies as “mangled”. It was an event that traumatized him so greatly that he often spoke strongly, if not violently, against the enemies of the Church.

Warren’s long service in the conflicts that arose during the post-Nauvoo period later left him described as a chosen defender of the Church and its prophets. He would, in time, enter into the circle of Brigham Young and become his close friend.

Brigham at one time considered Warren S. Snow as a potential member of the Quorum of the Twelve, saying that he was a “good man” when his name was brought up in counsels.

As it was, Warren S. Snow was assigned to Manti and made the presiding Bishop there, as well as a leading representative in the territorial legislature. In these capacities Warren had vast responsibilities related to church and civic governance.

He was consulted on how and where new settlements would be established and he placed men in important positions in Church leadership all over central Utah. He reported directly to Brigham and the Quorum of the Twelve and met with them frequently.

But there were troubled episodes during the early church leadership service of Warren Snow.

During a brief period after the Utah War, an examination of tithing funds in Manti resulted in a scandal made public from the pulpit by a visiting apostle, Orson Hyde, who declared Warren’s leadership suspect.

After a long and humiliating public investigation, it was determined that the bishopric led by Warren Snow was “careless” instead of dishonest.

Warren Snow publicly repented of his part in the scandal and that repentance was accepted by his superiors who had stood critical of him. But the event did great damage to his reputation and Warren struggled to regain the respect of the people of Manti.

His reputation as a hard man had proceeded him, and many questioned his judgment given the rumors they had heard about him over the years.

During the passionate period known as the Mormon Reformation, a time when “hellfire and damnation” was preached from the pulpit as leaders browbeat the Saints for not living their religion, Warren Snow was among the most vociferous.

His sermons from the time accused Church members of the need to repent and do better against all kinds of weaknesses and shortcomings.

During this period Warren was viewed as a particularly harsh leader. Some of his actions in his callings did little to dissuade the skeptical nature of how others viewed him.

In one famous episode the case of a man who was guilty of serious sexual transgression was brought before a Church court led by Bishop Snow. Excommunicating the man was not strong enough for members of the council – or for Bishop Snow.

In a clandestine midnight mugging of the man he was castrated, evidently at the hands of the Bishop and those members of the council who had excommunicated him.

Word of this reached Brigham Young and other Church leaders and another investigation ensued, casting a cloud of suspicion over Warren Snow that he never fully recovered from.

Part of the suspicion of Bishop Snow came from his reputation as a Church defender.

During the Utah War Warren Snow was a commanding general in the Nauvoo Legion, the holdover militia organized in Utah to defend against invading forces.

Snow was specifically charged by Brigham Young not to kill the troops on the way. He could steal cattle and supplies, set fires, and do anything possible to disrupt their march to Utah but he was not to engage in the use of deadly force.

Surviving records of the campaign indicate this was a difficult charge for Warren Snow, who wanted revenge on the enemies of the Church.

In Church talks Warren Snow often spoke of defending the faith.

A patriarchal blessing given to him sharpened his self-view in this role. It told him he was called to the protective service to the Church and promised that he could not be killed by enemies of the faith.

But for all of Warren’s passion about defending the faith there was another side to him that was markedly compassionate and spiritual.

He was blessed with a number of spiritual experiences that profoundly influenced him, including hearing the voice of God during the dedication of the Kirkland temple and witnessing the transfiguration of Brigham Young.

In the early 1860s, perhaps in a move to rescue Warren Snow from his reputation, Brigham Young sent the Bishop to England on a mission.

He served for several years with distinction and surviving letters between Warren and Brigham show that Warren did all he could to re-establish good feeling between them.
When Warren returned Brigham did welcome him with open arms and he sent the same apostle, Orson Hyde, who had led the investigation against him years before, to address the people to proclaim Warren’s innocence and to re-establish him in local church leadership in Manti once again.

Warren S. Snow Letter

A letter from Warren Snow to Brigham Young. Source: Church History Library

It did not go well for a time. But before long Indian uprisings created a need for Warren Snow, Defender of the Faith.

For years the residents in Central Utah had endured constant badgering by roving bands of Indians who would steal cattle and occasionally kill settlers.

Brigham’s strategy statewide for the longest time was to appease the Native Americans who lived there, clinging to the idea that he would “rather feed them then fight them”.

But not all settlers had Brigham’s patience.

When property was destroyed and especially when lives were taken many felt to impose an equal loss upon the Indians.

This inflamed situations over and over, and after a particularly gruesome killing of white settlers up a nearby canyon, things quickly got out of hand with a young Indian leader known as Black Hawk (a nephew to Chief Walker and a son of Chief Sanpitch).

The more the back-and-forth of killing between the Indians and the whites happened the bigger it seemed that Black Hawk’s band grew. In short time, greater damage and increased numbers of people were killed on both sides.

When the appointed leader of the local militia abandoned his post in the middle of a conflict it was Warren Snow who assumed command.

Working as closely with Brigham Young as he could Warren saw this new opportunity to prove to the community of Manti that he was a changed man.

For more than a year the Black Hawk War, as it came to be called, raged as Warren and Brigham tried to bring peace through restraint.

While Warren Snow was plain spoken with Brigham Young and other Church leaders about what he thought should be done he always sided publicly with what Young both advised and publicly said.

But Black Hawk persisted, and the event escalated after Warren Snow had promised safety for Indian warriors only to have more of them killed by restless settlers bent on revenge.

Everyone was aware of how tenuous the situation was – even Albert Smith.

From his journal we hear of an uprising that started in Gunnison, where a Mormon family was brutally murdered by marauding Indians.

The retaliation event took place right in front of the Smith home in Manti, as local settlers there captured two Indians completely unconnected with the Gunnison affair and tried to kill them.

Albert intervened and pled for their lives, stating to his fellow citizens of Manti that killing the wandering pair would only lead to more bloodshed on their own properties and to their own families.

He echoed, perhaps unknowingly, the same sentiments advanced by Brigham Young and Warren Snow.

As had happened so many times before, Albert’s admonition was ignored. For months the people in Manti went into hiding for fear of Indian retaliation.

In time, both Brigham and Warren came to see that something needed to be done to get Black Hawk to back down. Over the course of 9 months Warren led large groups of men in attacking and capturing leaders of the Indian band.

The Indians stepped up their part by using women and children to help captured prisoners to escape and on one careless night at the jail in Manti, Utah they caused the escape of about 8 Indian warriors.

Warren and his men gave chase and during a very close exchange of gunfire on the streets of Manti, Warren killed two Indian chiefs while sustaining a bullet wound to his arm and shoulder.

He wrote to Brigham to report on the affair, expressing regret at having to take a life to save his own.

Knowing that the event would inflame things even further, Brigham sent Warren on a relentless chase into the Fish Lake forest in search of Black Hawk and his closest men. It took months, and Warren ended up with greater wounds and became exhausted from the chase.

His exploits were reported in the news and in time the campaign began to wear down Black Hawk and his men. Black Hawk went on record to say that as long as Warren Snow lived in Manti he would never know peace.

Brigham felt that maybe Warren Snow, for as valiant as his efforts had been, could have been making things worse with Black Hawk. Seeing that Warren was injured, exhausted, and leaving the care of his family to others for long stretches of time, Brigham relieved him of command and sent him home to heal.

The change in leadership did help in ending the conflict with Black Hawk. In months, hostilities ended.

But the whole affair had a restorative effect on Warren Snow’s reputation. He returned to cheers in the streets of Manti and in time became Mayor of the city.

His service as a church leader in the years that followed were markedly different this time around.

For the next 30-years Warren Snow enjoyed a reputation as a man of prudence, a man of compassion and a man who defended the faith with softer tones and greater testimony.

So, when Warren Snow stood on Temple Hill in Manti with Brigham Young and later declared that President Young had said Moroni had dedicated that spot for a temple in the Latter-days, people took him seriously.

In fact, his funeral in 1896 was attended by thousands of people. His impact on the community and the whole of central Utah would go down in local history in glowing terms.

The Manti Temple, which was announced in 1875, featured a variety of events that involved the entirety of the community.

A parade was held when the ground was dedicated (or, rededicated, if you will). The Mormon hierarchy present included the First Presidency, members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and prominent local citizens such as Patriarch Garner Snow, and, of course, General Snow.

The Monday following the dedication of the site, on April 30th, 1877, the citizens of Manti gathered for a groundbreaking ceremony so that work could commence that day.

The 100-people gathered knelt in prayer led by Bishop John B. Maiben, then Partriarch Gardner Snow prayed over the labors.

One by one the prominent individuals of Manti took their turn with the shovels in the following order: Bishop Maiben, Patriarch Snow, James Wareham, Hans Jensen, Frederick Cox, Albert Smith, Jezreel Showemaker, George Peacock, Luther Tuttle, and George Billings.

After these ceremonial few, more than 80 men with their horses and oxen began the broad work of excavating with plows, scrapers, picks, and shovels. It would be the first day of more than 11 years of temple construction.

For Albert Smith, who attended these events and noted them in his journal, the coming of the temple spurred an effort to do his family history.

He wrote letters and sent money to genealogists in New York and Massachusetts. This happened before the temple was first announced in 1875.

Along with his third wife, Grandmother Sophia Smith, the anticipation of the temple was something recorded with each passing season. Albert and Sophie would visit the unfinished temple frequently and record what they saw.

By the time the temple was completed in 1888 Albert had possession of nearly 2000 names of his ancestors. He was proud of his Mayflower connections and was anxious to get into the temple to do work for them.

The temple dedication was an event so anticipated it is believed that was when this notable image of Albert and Sophie was taken:

Albert & Sophie Smith

When it finally came time to dedicate the temple more than 5000 people came to the remote location of Manti to participate.

Going to these events required tickets or invitations. In fact, nearly everything associated with the Temple over the years of it’s construction featured some sort of documentation. Here is a donation slip showing a contribution made by Gardner Snow:

Gardner Snow donation

Albert himself did not get tickets to the first day of dedication events. He watched the assembled masses at the temple from his front porch and attended for himself on the 2nd day.

Crowds at the Manti Temple dedication

Crowds at the Manti Temple dedication

~ What Temples Meant to the Pioneers ~

The pioneer era temples – which include both Kirtland and Nauvoo, by the way – were built during seasons of duress. They were built despite the poverty of Church members. Each was a tremendous act of faith.

As such, the completion of each temple was a celebration of faith. Within the temples the Saints could worship in the most sacred ways.

Simply put, a temple dedication was a big deal.

When Saint George was completed in 1877 as the first temple in the West, nearly all of those living in Manti, including the Snow and the Smith families, traveled to participate.

For years prior to its completion the Saints in Sanpete sent money and materials to St. George to help with the temple. After the St. George Temple was completed the members of the Church there returned the favor to assist in building the Manti temple.

For these pioneer temple builders the Temples provided a place for their children to make covenants and to be “sealed” together.

Perhaps the first of the next generation of the family to take advantage of the new Manti Temple was Joseph Homer Snow, son of James C. Snow. On July 19, 1888, just a few months after the dedication of the Manti Temple, he was sealed to Mary Nielsen, who went to the temple for herself for the first time on that date that they were married.

Joseph and Mary Snow would go on to have ten children. Their fourth, a girl they named Muriel, was born in 1891. In 1913, Muriel Snow would go to the Manti Temple and marry William Reeves Riggs, Jr.

They had a large family too. Their 2nd child, a daughter named Maurine, went to the Manti Temple in 1940 – and there married Leon Westover.

Maurine was following in the steps of her sister, Milda. Who only months before, in June 1940, went to the Manti Temple and married Charles Gerald Quilter.

Of course, there were other marriages and other temples in different places. That is not the point.

The point is that generations after the pioneer era temples were built the children and grandchildren of those pioneers who built them took advantage of them, fulfilling prophecy, fulfilling dreams and bringing forth new generations “born under the covenant”.

Was this what Moroni, the last of his ancient people, was thinking if he was indeed seen in vision in Manti?

Who exactly was Moroni and what could be his connection to Manti?

For members of the Church, we know that Moroni appeared to Joseph Smith in 1823 to extend to him his calling. During that event, the Prophet Joseph recorded that Moroni quoted from the Biblical book of Malachi, stating, in part:

“…And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the father, and the hearts of the children shall turn to the fathers. If it were not so, the whole earth would be wasted at his coming…”

This, and other things given to Joseph Smith as Moroni taught him over the next several years, laid the foundation for modern temples as part of the “restoration of all things”.

Joseph Smith spoke of Moroni several times during his lifetime and offered information not contained within the Book of Mormon about him. Associates of the Prophet recorded such conversations and from those memories came this map outlining the travels of Moroni in North America:

Map of Moroni's Travels

Researchers now conclude that Moroni may have not only dedicated the land where the Manti temple now stands but that he could well have done similarly in St. George, Nauvoo, Independence, Kirtland and “others we know not of yet”.

This research was not conducted before the time of the pioneer era in Manti. It was not information that was widely shared or known.

Is it merely coincidental then that Warren Snow and other such as Betsy Bradley shared what they knew of Moroni in Manti?

That is speculation of a spiritual scope left for greater minds than my own.

All I can say, as one living in the 21st century, attending a temple and reflecting on my pioneer temple heritage, and as one now anticipating a new temple dedication in the years ahead where I live in my stake in Smithfield, Utah, is that I have no doubt of Moroni’s connection.

Smithfield Utah Temple

No, like Albert Smith, I lay no claim to visions.

I take on faith that the gift of such given to others is theirs.

The gift given to me to know is that God is in command and we know that best through work done in temples, where my heart is indeed knit with theirs and the covenants they made with God.

Willis Welty Family

The Value in Re-Plowing Old Ground

It has been an interesting time for working on family history.

The part I like least about this work is prospecting for data – finding the names, dates and places necessary to fill out the tree.

That’s ground-floor stuff and I’m much more of a storyteller. I want to know what’s beyond the data with each person.

I got a message a few weeks back from my niece Michaela asking if I had any more female names for baptisms. As it turned out I was fresh out. She will be going for her own endowments next fall so until then she’s limited in what temple work she can do. So, for her sake I decided to see what I could find out there in the part of the work that’s not my favorite.

I’m glad I did. From it I learned more of the story.

~ Going for the Low Hanging Fruit ~

In all the recent work on my step-grandfather’s line – that of Pascal Henry Caldwell – I assumed I would find a lot of work on his family. After all, it now stretches back to the year 1100.

But that Caldwell family must have a lot of people out there working on it that I do not know about.

Not only did I find the data but I found lots of temple work that has been done over the past several years.

The Caldwells were not the low hanging fruit I thought they were.

So I went back to my mother’s line to see what had changed. Due to the pandemic and the situation with my Dad it’s maybe been three years since I’ve been down in the weeds on my mother’s lines. There was enough there – and still is – to keep us pretty busy.

What I noticed right off is that others have really stepped up in the time I’ve been away. In fact, I would wonder what my mother would think today if she saw how things have progressed since the last time she was able to look at it herself.

Of course, what I was about to learn is that she knows it all without being here.

She woke me up one night this week. It was her voice I heard.

~ There’s More to the Story ~

I had a long session on Family Search and Ancestry on Wednesday. I had decided to go back to some familiar names to find out where we stood on completing their temple work and what additional records we could attach to names.

When I attended Roots Tech I listened with interest to hear the numbers from Family Search and Ancestry about records they have added since the last Roots Tech was held. Billions and billions of records are added each year from sources all over the world.

I have noticed the last several years that military records have been added in abundance. And, of course, the 1950 census was just released and I wanted to update information from any family who participated in that event.

It was a long day that resulted in many “new” records being added but nothing that changed the outcome in temple work or new family discoveries.

I had a nagging sense, however, that I was actually doing something useful. That something was going to come of going back and adding records to names that technically didn’t need them.

I hit the pillow at about 1:00 am, exhausted, and slept for about 90 minutes. Then, in a dead sleep, I felt a poke on my shoulder and my mother’s voice said “John Jackson”. And that was all.

In all my years of working family history I can claim to have had feelings and promptings to something I needed to do.

But never have I ever felt anything so specific.

So I immediately got out of bed and began a search for John Jackson.

Of course, I assumed that was the entirety of his name.

There are a billion John Jacksons in the world but none that I could find that tied to my mother’s family.

I was momentarily confused as I tried to think through the problem. Then it dawned on me.

I wasn’t looking for a man whose last name was Jackson. I was looking for a man whose first and middle names were John Jackson.

In about 30 seconds I found him – John Jackson Carson, who lived from 1858 to 1924.

He was the son of Erastus Ulysses Carson, who had two families with two separate wives. We knew about John Jackson years ago and did his work, along with all of the other children of Erastus and his two wives.

What we did not know what that John Jackson, like his father, had three wives. He had children with each of them. The reason we didn’t know this before is that the records showing all this were not available the last time any work was done on John Jackson Carson.

In fact, some of the wives and children fell under the 110-year rule, meaning they might have been discoverable in some cases but we could not do their temple work.

Between the combined new record resources of Family Search and Ancestry, we have now a more complete story of John Jackson – and his 8 children from his three wives.

All of John Jackson’s children are now on the other side. Many of their records are now available. He has grandchildren and great grandchildren still living all over the country.

~ More to Every Story ~

John Jackson’s new discoveries made me question everyone on my mother’s lines. So I went back, straight to my grandparents, and began just adding what new records I could find.
Most yielded nothing new.

But, as I got past that great-grandparent level – say from 1850 to 1920 – I started uncovering a lot of new people. Wives added, children born, etc. The make-up of some family units changed dramatically.

For example, Aunt Glenora Welty, my great-grandfather’s sister, has been for years a kind of lost person.

All we had of her was a record of her name from the 1870 census when she was a year old and ten years later from the 1880 census when she was 11. That was enough information to get her baptized and sealed to her parents.

But as is often the case with female records, it ended there.

From years back I can find online inquiries from my mother asking for help in trying to discover whatever happened to Glenora. I spent considerable time about 6 years ago on Glenora and got no further than my Mom did.

But after John Jackson’s discoveries I decided to give it another go and in 20 minutes I was able to finally get somewhere.

Glenora married in 1887 at the age of 18. On the wedding record, which I think may have been available for years, they spelled her last name as Kelty instead of Welty. Her parents were not listed on the marriage record, as was common at the time.

Glenora was an usual name at the time and evidently she never used it after marrying. Every new record I found of her she is listed as Glenna.

In fact, thanks to all these new records I was able to find a brief obituary about her in the local paper:

Glenora Welty Lohman

Of course, discovering this entire family of nine people led to other stories. Glenna had a daughter named Eleanor Beatrice Lohman who never married. She died in France in 1958.

That was a curiosity to me and I wondered what happened.

Turns out, she was in France working as an insurance clerk and while there she died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage. When a foreigner working overseas dies there is a report made to send to the family – and that report is accessible now through Ancestry.

Another good reason to plow over old ground is to discover what other family members (most you likely don’t even know about) have added to either Family Search or Ancestry.

Someone at some time posted this image of my great-grandparents, Kit and Effie Carson (Kit was John Jackson’s half brother):

Kit and Effie Carson

That picture means the world to me. My mother did not get to know her Carson family growing up because her mother did not get to know the Carson family, their stories or traditions. To get anything this intimate is very significant to me.

That wasn’t the only family photo I recently discovered. Below is a picture of the Willis Welty family around the year 1915 or so. Willis is Glenora’s brother. Why is this important? Because when my grandmother – Winifred Calista Welty – was orphaned by the deaths of her parents it was with this family that she lived for a long period of time:

Willis Welty Family

Can you see why continuing to look for people we have found adds to the story? When my Nana died in 1967 my mother was only 24. She had nothing of her family that was known. Since that time we have been able to piece together their stories as every new record, photo or story is added.

I’m not done discovering things as I work through ground that has been plowed before.

In fact, I’m finding that I can get 20 to 30 records I can attach now to people who have lived in past 150 years on average. Not every person – but a great many.

This has me motivated to keep working on names we’ve already worked on before. There are stories to uncover in names we have already known about and perhaps have done the temple-work for.

It is good to learn more of their stories.

Aunt Evie

Memories of Aunt Evie

Evelyn Riggs Westover, Aunt Evie to the entire world it seems, passed over to the other side today, Monday, May 23, 2022.

Aunt Evie

In the coming days there will be no shortage of tributes, memories and histories shared of this wonderful lady.

As cousin Lynn Quilter expressed this morning, “Well, that ends an era in the family”.

He’s right. Aunt Evie was the youngest in her family and the last of our “greatest generation” to leave us. What a grand legacy she built with Uncle Darrell and what an imprint she has left on us all.

There are not many people, not even my children, who can fully appreciate how much Aunt Evie has impacted my life.

Even as I still mourn the recent loss of my father I’m almost speechless in trying to express how significant Aunt Evie has been to so many of us. Her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have long cherished her.

On both sides of the veil today there are hearts rejoicing. Her long illness and physical challenges, which could never define her, have released her and she is free to return home to so many others who also adore her.

As a little boy, I struggled to understand our connection.

I was told she was my Aunt Evie, yet I had another aunt who was so much younger. More confusing to me was that my father called her Aunt Evie, too. So did my uncles – and my aunt. I just couldn’t comprehend that.

Aunt Evie, most of the time when I saw her, was in the company of my grandparents.

In fact, my Grandma, who I adored, seemed to be a little different whenever she was around Aunt Evie.

Riggs Sisters

This family famous photo of the Riggs girls – all expecting, powering the post-war baby boom all by themselves.

You see, they laughed a lot.

Aunt Evie could make my Grandma laugh out loud and with great enthusiasm. This was, at least at that time, a little out of character for Grandma, to me.

My Grandma was a little serious, you see. Not in a stern way, but in a reverent way. Grandma was bright and positive and loving and so very, very kind. But it sure seemed that when Aunt Evie was around my Grandma sure laughed a lot more.

Once, at a family event at my Grandma’s house when Evie was there, I asked her about this whole Aunt Evie thing. I was maybe five or six.

I just did not understand how my Daddy’s Aunt Evie could be my Aunt Evie too. So, I asked her about it.

In fact, I told her I would much prefer to call her Grandma – because she looked a little like my Grandma. Aunt Evie just giggled.

Taking me in her lap, she hugged me, kissed me and told me that she loved me. She was always doing that to me.

She said, “Now, Jeff, I know it’s confusing. But your Grandma is your Grandma and nobody else can be your Grandma. She’s special.”

I said, “I know. She’s my Grandma but you can be my Grandma too”.

She laughed again.

“I love you like any Grandma would, that’s for sure!” Evie said, with a finger pointing in the air. “But I’m your Aunt Evie and happy to be so!”

That sounded a lot like something my Grandma would say. She did her best to explain.

“Your Grandma and I are sisters,” Evie said. “I’m her little sister so that makes me your Aunt Evie.”

I clearly did not understand.

But I was taken with the idea that both Grandma and Aunt Evie were once little girls. Sisters, you see, were little – like me. I had sisters, I understood that. But how could she still be Aunt Evie to me and to my Dad?

Aunt Evie very wisely pointed around the room when I told her of my confusion. “Do you see all these people?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“We are all family. Every one of us. And that is all you need to understand.”

Aunt Evie was always that kind of voice of comfort and love to me. And fun, too. She could laugh with the best of them.

When I was a teenager we moved in across the street from Uncle Darrell and Aunt Evie. Years had passed but Evie hadn’t changed at all. She made a special effort to make me feel welcome living just across the street.

Of course, Uncle Darrell built our house but it was Aunt Evie who made the efforts to make us feel welcome.

On one of my first weekends there she invited me to go to the store with her. On the way, she chatted me up, asking about school and the things I liked. As we walked the store she explained what she was looking for and that she loved feeding everyone.

There was a long line at the check out and while we waited our turn she just kept talking. But suddenly she stopped and started giggling. Behind me was the rack of magazines and a tabloid headline had caught Evie’s eye.

Man Marries a Head of Lettuce, the headline read. Aunt Evie started giggling at that headline and just could not stop.

She was laughing so hard tears were starting to come out of her eyes and she started apologizing. But she kept right on giggling and asked me to help fill out her check because she couldn’t see well enough to do it herself.

I understood rather quickly that this was just life with Evie. She saw humor in things most of us might never notice. She was infinitely upbeat. She took great joy, it seemed, in just about everything.

She had her serious moments, too, of course. At Church one Sunday, after I had given a talk, she came up to me and grabbed my face, giving me a big kiss in the process. “You did far better than I could do. I’m proud of you.”

There was no giggling with that, just love. That was Evie’s gift.

Over the years I would have opportunities to have many conversations with her. Some about me and what I was doing but almost always it was about other people in the family. My parents, my cousins, my grandparents, her parents and all those who came before.

Darrell & Evie

My adventures in family history I’ve noted many times came about thanks to Uncle Darrell. But in a more quiet, consistent way Evie was at the center of many of those conversations, too.

She always read what I would post on this website. She asked me questions. She encouraged me. She was always interested.

I’m not sure how much Aunt Evie knew how much that motivated me. I’ve always had kind of an Aunt Evie filter in place when I write things – because I knew she was going to read it.

Still, we teased her a lot when I was younger.

I can never forget those early morning drives to Seminary. It was always early and we were always grumpy and Evie never was. Never.

Being teenagers we would sometimes do things just to get her reaction. On a cold day when the windshield on their big Chevy Impala iced up we all sat in the car while Evie tried to clear the windshield.

Evie was a little lady. That Impala was huge. She had bummed my pocket comb off me so she could scrape the window.

We were content to sit in the car with the defroster blowing watching her jump up at the windshield in an attempt to get her little arms to cover some distance on that huge window. The higher she jumped and reached to scrape the ice the more we laughed.

Looking back now, it seems kind of a mean thing to do.

But when she, out of breath, got back into the car and saw us laughing she started laughing too. “I must have looked pretty silly!” she laughed. But that was Aunt Evie – always bright, always positive, always laughing at herself and never at others.

To me, she was always sensitive about my Mom.

She always asked how Mother was doing. She always asked, if we were discussing something important, if I had talked to my Mom about it.

She always complimented my Mom to me, too – how pretty she was, what neat things she did with our yard, how talented she was in so many creative ways.

Once, when I was maybe 15 or 16, Evie could see I was struggling with girls. I thought she and my Mother talked about it because I had just recently had a talk where my Mom encouraged me to not be so shy – to let my light shine.

Aunt Evie, knowing it was a difficult topic for me but not knowing my Mother had already talked to me, asked me if “the girls” were treating me okay. I told her that was an interesting question, then I told her about the conversation Mom and I had about it.

Aunt Evie hugged me and then kissed me and then told me she loved me. She said my Mom was one smart lady and that I should do as my mother advised. In later years I wanted to ask Evie about that moment but I never did. I should have.

My Mom sometimes had problems accepting love. This was likely due to her upbringing. She just didn’t always know how to respond when someone expressed love.

I know Evie tried and tried and tried with all of us, including my Mother. She never stopped trying.

I say this only because when I think of all the big moments in my life Aunt Evie was there.

She was there when I went to school, when I graduated, when I went to the Temple, and when I went and returned home from a mission. She was there when I got married.

She made sure to speak for those I loved who I had lost.

When my Mom died, she expressed love and told me how much my Mother must love the man I had become. Even recently when my Dad died she told me how grateful he was for me, that he loves me and that she agreed with him.

Evie’s love extended beyond herself and I always felt okay with that. After all, who else would know?

She was especially sensitive to me about my Grandma and Grandpa. After my grandparents passed away Aunt Evie always invoked their name at these big moments she participated in. Grandparenting is a proxy work, if you ask Aunt Evie.

She knew how invested I was in my grandparents and how they were invested in me.

Evie, Dad and Grandma

This was a significant photo for my Dad, show him being held by his mother next to Evie in Topaz, 1943.

She did the same thing with my father.

In fact, one of the last conversations I had with my father before he passed was about Aunt Evie.

She was always his 2nd Mom after Grandma and I never knew a time when Dad and Evie were not close.

In his final years they would call each other frequently, comparing notes on their health issues and cheering each other on.

During the course of these conversations, which always ended in a mutual expression of love, Evie would remind Dad that she was supposed to go first.

In my conversation with my Dad that night he passed away he said, “If I go first, Evie will never forgive me.” I understood fully what he was saying. He just didn’t want to let her down.

When I saw Evie a week or two after my father’s funeral, she hugged me, as always, and whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry about your Dad. I sure loved him.” But without saying a word to her about it, she just kept talking. “He wasn’t supposed to go first. The little stinker!”

This too was one of things I love about Aunt Evie.

Everything is eternal in her eyes. My Dad was not “gone”. He is still here, still the same. So too, I would tell you, is Aunt Evie.

She spoke of Uncle Darrell, too, in present tense. Grandma and Grandpa have been gone for over 30 years but not in Evie’s eyes. The same was true of her parents and her siblings. She spoke of them all in the here and the now. Always.

That’s because one of Evie’s great gifts was to see the greatness in others. That was never something in the past, it was always something in the now.

Like all truth, the greatness in people is eternal. Evie was always so bright and hopeful and loving in expressing this about others.

That’s why her passing at age 96 is not a thing to be sad about.

The reunion taking place right now is filled with the laughter – and the giggles – of Evie and her sisters. I know it.

How proud her Mom and Dad must be. How thrilled Uncle Darrell must be to have her back. What a great time it is for my grandparents, and my parents, and all who know and love Evie.

I cannot think of Evie and not smile. It just isn’t possible. Even in death, there is joy.

How I miss her already. How deserving all those dear family members on the other side are of her presence there with them today. Like a new baby coming into this world, I know the passage of Aunt Evie in that “new birth” is one of great rejoicing. It can simply be no other way.

I would be remiss without acknowledging all of Aunt Evie’s children, who have been so loyal and loving to her these many years. Barta has been there for Darrell and Evie these many years with such devotion. How I admire her tenacious care, especially during these difficult times. What great acts of service and example we have still among us.

There is much more to tell of the life of Aunt Evie. There’s a great love story. And another story of raising a dynamic family. Another other of church service. Another of service to family, past and presence. I just can’t do justice to it all.

The responsibility is now ours to document the wonderful life of Evelyn Riggs Westover.

I know among her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren there are many memories and lessons. I hope you will share them in abundance here, so that the record we leave behind is complete.

Pascal Henry Caldwell

The History of Pascal Henry Caldwell

In March of 2022 we marked the 100th birthday of Pascal Henry Caldwell, an individual who owns a unique place in our family history.

For all of us connected to him with the name of Westover none of us are actually blood-related. He is my mother’s step-father, and thus my step-grandfather.

Pascal Henry Caldwell married my grandmother, Winifred Calista Welty Begich, after the death of my grandfather, Carl Begich. They married in 1946.

My father, in the last year of his life in 2021, took up the project of Pat Caldwell’s history. Dad felt that with 25 years having passed since the death of Pascal Henry Caldwell it was time that more of his story was told.

This history includes the words and the work of my father that he was able to put forth in his final year. It also contains many of my (Jeff Westover) own memories and observations as a grandson.

We, his grandchildren, called him Bumpa, a name bestowed upon him by my big brother who had difficulty saying “Grandpa” as a toddler. We still call him Bumpa.

I make no claim to this being either a comprehensive or wholly complete accounting of his life. There are gaps in his history that are unknown to us. Some of his history he struggled to forget and some he simply did not want to share.

He was a man with sad connection to his past and some of it he was not proud of or was hurt by.

These realities are common to us all and, in his case, they go far in telling the lessons of his journey. Pat Caldwell was not a man who ran away from weakness. In fact, he confronted them with candor and honesty.

But what he could not understand, especially in relation to the choices of others, he simply never tried to explain or make excuses for.

What drove my Dad to work on this history was not only a love for my mother but also genuine affection and admiration for a man who was a different type altogether. Dad saw some of the days of Pat Caldwell’s past that he wanted to forget.

What Dad witnessed was a man who took responsibility for his own redemption and one who, as Dad would say, “lived his life in crescendo”. There are many lessons to be learned of such a man. We – meaning my father and I – hope to share some of those lessons from what we do know of his history.

Our hope is that Bumpa – and his family – can remain of interest to future generations who want to understand us. Because Pat Caldwell is an influential individual in our history. His life meshes with ours. We claim him with love and loyalty.

~ Ancient Caldwell Family History ~

The Caldwell family beginnings can be traced to 12th century France when Guillaume William Calwel married Lady Joanna De Lorraine I in the year 1175 . The name Caldwell has been falsely stated as meaning “cold well” (as in water) of English origin.

But clearly these Caldwell family lines can be drawn to France, where the family name was known as Caulwel or Calwel. The paternal lines stayed in France until the early 1500s, when Alexander Thomas Caldwell raised a family with Annie McCutcheon in Scotland.

One of their grandsons, John Caldwell, ended up a merchant in Ireland until around the year 1640.

John’s grandson – John Finley Caldwell – came to the New World in 1727, landing at New Castle, Delaware. He became a pioneer of Lunenburg County, Virginia.

When a grandson of John Finley Caldwell by the name of Robert Caldwell died, his wife moved their family to Kentucky.

It was Robert’s grandson, John Willis Caldwell, who raised a large family of ten children, including the youngest born in 1833 named James Marion Caldwell.

James Marion Caldwell was born in Tennessee but would pass away in 1914 in a place known as West Monroe, Louisiana. This is the place that would anchor Bumpa’s Caldwell family all during the 20th century.

The middle of seven children to James and Sarah Caldwell was born in 1872 in West Monroe. His name was Walter Meter Caldwell.

The twin cities of Monroe and West Monroe were named after President James Monroe. But the area has a colorful history dating back centuries. Both towns are located in Ouachita Parish and so named after the Ouachita Indians who were native to the area. There were several stops and starts to these towns that straddle the Ouachita River.

West Monroe got its official start in 1880, so the Caldwells were there really from the beginning. They were farmers.

Walter M. Caldwell married Rosa Pickering in 1900. He was 28 and she was 36. She died in 1908 at the age of 44, having given birth to 4 children. This first family would have a later impact on the early life of Pascal Henry Caldwell.

In 1909, Walter married another local girl who came from a local parish to the south called Caldwell. In investigating this possible connection we find that a Caldwell family had been prominent enough in local affairs to have had the parish named after them in 1838. In fact, folks named Caldwell today remain politically dominant in Caldwell Parish.

Walter’s connection, and that of his father James, seems to be through an uncle back a couple of generations named Robert Caldwell. Perhaps it was the work of that branch that drew James Marion Caldwell to the Monroe area. We just don’t know.

While the Caldwells of Caldwell Parish were established and well-to-do, the Caldwells of Ouachita Parish were not.

From the very beginning, the history of Walter M. Caldwell had two very clear hallmarks: farming and poverty. He took up the 160 acres owned by his father, James Marion, and would for the rest of his life work to make it sustain his families.

Rosa died in 1908 and Walter married in 1909 to Cecilia Downs. They never had children together and their union ended upon her death in 1918. Walter, with three children ages 16, 15 and 13 and a large farm to run, would married again. This time he married another girl with the name of Downs and her name was Mattie Victoria. When they married in 1921 she was 30 years old. By then, Walter was 49.

Walter would have a 2nd family with Mattie.

Their first born was a son named Pascal, clearly named after Walter’s little brother Edward Pascal.

(Note: Edward Pascal died in 1906 at the age of 31. He was stabbed in the street by another man in a drunken dispute. Edward Pascal left a wife and four children behind.)

Walter and Mattie would have five children in about 12 years – Pat, Rosalee, Violet, Willis and Gertie.

These siblings would eventually live near each other right there in West Monroe. It would always be their home.

~ The Boyhood of Pat Caldwell ~

The childhood years of Pat Caldwell are light on details.

He would always describe himself as a farm boy. It was expected of the children in the Caldwell home to participate in the chores of the farm and helping the family to make a living.

Walter’s older children contributed to the farm in large ways during Pat Caldwell’s younger years. But their rough existence left them exposed to health dangers that were common in rural areas where medical resources were few.

In 1924, Pascal’s older step-brother, Jim, died of double pneumonia at the age of 22. A few years later, his married step-sister Lizzie died at the age of 23 of an infection.
From Walter Sr.’s first family only Walter Jr, 17 years older than Pascal Henry, would remain a major influence in the young life of Pat Caldwell. Walter Jr was the lead hand on the Caldwell farm and would teach young Pat Caldwell how to contribute.

The river would prove both a blessing and a curse to local famers like the Caldwell family.

Lowlands away from the river produced excellent growing soil. But occasionally the river would flood those lowlands and wipe out homes and crops.

Such was the case in both 1927 and again in 1932.

Floods of West Monroe

Local newspapers of the time told of the devastation for families trying to make a living during these tough times.

For Pat Caldwell, the oldest of Walter and Mattie’s children, it meant an early end to education. He always said he only got as far as the 8th grade.

Walter’s age by this point – beyond his 60th year – is another reason why the children left school and went to work.

Walter Sr, the now-married Walter Jr, a cousin who lived with Walter Jr named Tommie who was in his 20’s, and the teenage Pat Caldwell all worked the 160 acres of the Caldwell farm in the 1930s. There is no doubt that Pat’s younger siblings, all under the age of 12 during the 1930s, also contributed where they could.

There is some evidence that Pat Caldwell attended at least some high school.

In this newspaper clip from when Pat entered the service in 1942 we learn that he attended Ouachita Parish High School.

Pat Caldwell

In later years Pat Caldwell would describe his teenage years as a time of a lot of hard work. Those years were all the height of the Great Depression, which hit as hard in rural Louisiana as it did anywhere.

There was some resentment expressed towards his father, Walter, because of the demands placed upon Pat to produce for the farm. The hard work was married to some hard living by adults in the family. Alcohol, tobacco, and frequent escape through music were just part of the local and family culture.

In describing himself Pat would not excuse himself from responsibility during these years.

“I was as strong as an ox,” he would say in describing the 18-year-old Pascal Caldwell. “And just as dumb”.

The culture of the family and Pat’s relationship with his parents during his teenage years was known to be rough. He would later admit that in his later teens he was also somewhat wild.
Outside of the family farm, Pat did get some work for Louisiana Power and Light, where he picked up an interest in electrical work. He also worked for a period of time at Minden Shell, a local gas station.

Exactly when Pat left home and what the circumstances were between him and his parents is not known.

We do know that when Pat Caldwell registered for the navy in 1942 he was 20 years old and living nearly 100 miles away in Shreveport. There he was working in a munitions factory at the time and listed his closest living relative in a man named Jeff Caldwell.

This Jeff Caldwell is likely a 2nd cousin, a few years younger than Pascal. He is the son of Jefferson W. Caldwell, who was the long-time police chief in the City of West Monroe.

This info from one simple record does give us a glimpse into the reach of extended family with the Caldwells of Northern Louisiana.

Draft Regisistration

Regardless of the missing details of this very young period of Pat Caldwell’s life we do know this from what we can glean of records in 1942: He was 20 years old. He entered the military with the intent of learning the skills of an electrician. He traveled to New Orleans to begin his WWII experience.

He would not return again to stay in Louisiana for 40 years.

~ The World War II Experience ~

On October 13, 1942 Pat Caldwell enlisted in the U.S. Navy.

Where he trained and the details of his enlistment are largely lost except his telling of a desire to learn to be an electrician and the Navy offered him that opportunity.

He mustered with the USS Zeilin in April of 1943 and spent the duration of the war on that ship in the Pacific.

USS Zeilin

He came aboard the “Mighty Z”, as the Zeilin was known, in San Diego.

For the next six months the Zeilin shuttled between military installations in Alaska and San Diego before departing for the South Pacific where it would spend the rest of the year.

In mid-1943 the Zeilin was assigned as an attack transport in support of the Battleship Pennsylvania. From that point forward it would shuttle supplies, troops and weapons to various fields of battle in the Pacific.

At Tarawa, in November 1943, the Zeilin came under fire while unloading in preparation for the Marine invasion there. The ship did not receive any damage during this first encounter with the Japanese.

The Zeilin traveled all over the South Pacific in this capacity, visiting the Marshall Islands, the Solomon Islands and Guadalcanal.

As time passed and naval and military operations intensified in the Pacific it seemed the closer the Zeilin got to the action.

The ship visited Guam and Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, serving for periods of time as a “floating reserve” for the Marine Corps.

After a three-month overhaul in San Francisco the in the fall of 1944 the Zeilin re-deployed to the Philippines.

On 2 January 1945, Zeilin left Manus and arrived off San Fabian, Luzon, in the Philippine Islands on 11 January. After offloading Zeilin departed on 12 January in convoy.

The next morning, a single Japanese kamikaze aircraft attacked the convoy missing the amphibious command ship Mount Olympus (AGC-8) and striking Zeilin.

The right wing of the Japanese aircraft struck cargo loading equipment next to the number 6 cargo hatch.

The fuselage crashed into the starboard side of the housetop. Incendiary weapons carried by the aircraft exploded and started several fires on the ship.

Topside damage to the Zeilin was extensive. The superstructure deck was destroyed, deck framing was damaged, and several staterooms were destroyed.

The aircraft’s engine pierced the deck, the outboard bulkhead and landed in a landing craft carried by the Zeilin.

Seven crew members were killed, three crew members were declared missing, and 30 crew members were injured.

Pat Caldwell was among the injured, but his injuries were not serious. In later years, I had several opportunities to ask him about his service in the Navy. He was reluctant to share much.

At age 13, I had a school assignment to explore the experiences of my grandparents during the war. Unlike most school assignments this was one my Mother was keenly engaged in. She saw it as an opportunity to get details and create a record of those war years. All of my grandparents and uncles and aunts of that “greatest generation” freely helped with the project, including Bumpa. But his reluctance to share was likely tempered by a grandfather’s concern with my age and impressionability.

He told me of the travels of the Zeilin and shared how much he hated the heat of the South Pacific.

He said he was an “Electrician’s Mate” but that he worked in a lot of other capacities because much of the time there wasn’t electricians work to do. In later years, after I had served in Puerto Rico as a missionary, Bumpa asked me how I enjoyed the weather there, recalling his distaste for anywhere tropical.

This led to a more adult conversation about his military service.

In this conversation he told me he was “more of pack mule” in the Navy than an electrician. He was tasked with moving equipment and supplies with other teams of sailors. He also said he saw more than his fair share of dead and mangled bodies.

Years later, after he had attended a ship reunion for the “Mighty Z”, he told me of an incident – likely the kamikaze event of January 1945 – where he thought he was going to die.

His electrician duties kept him far below deck most of the time and the conditions down there were difficult to withstand on a good day given the heat of the South Pacific.

The ship was hit by the plane, which destroyed much of what was above him, while airplane fuel leaked down to where he was and ignited. He refused to share any further details of what he saw or experienced.

His eyes filled with tears and his face turned red as he spoke to me about this. But he shook his head, as if to brush it away. “That was a long time ago,” was all that he said.

It is believed that Pat’s stay aboard the Zeilin extended beyond when the war ended in August, 1945. He stayed through at least November 1945, as the ship was pressed into duties in recovery efforts in the Philippines, when it then returned to the US West Coast.

Around this time and into early 1946, Bumpa received an offer from the U.S. Navy. They would help him complete his high school education and assist him in getting the certifications required for continued work as an electrician in civilian life.

He was honorably discharged and took up post-war employment with the Navy, where he would work as an electrician at the Navel Weapons Station in Concord, California. He would work there for the next 25 years, moving up to the role of Planning Estimator and supervisor at the base.

Whatever his communication was with his family in Louisiana Pat decided California would be his future.

It was in this more solitary existence as a vet that he met a 29-year widow with a 3-year-old child – and married her.

~ Marriage and Fatherhood ~

The life story of Winifred Calista Welty is one of heartbreak and tragedy.

Born to very young parents in the Spring of 1917 young Winifred lost her 20-year-old mother in December of 1918 to the Spanish Flu, which had raged as a world-wide pandemic.
Her father cared for Winifred and her little brother, Norman, until severe pneumonia took his life in 1922.

Alfred Welty, with Winnie and Norman

Winifred and Norman were split up, living with various family members for the rest of their growing up years. They had very different experiences as children.

In the 1940 census Winifred is found living with the Allston Family in Scarsdale, New York. She is listed as the maid. Between the date of that census and late 1941 she found her way to New York City, where she found work as a receptionist.

While working in New York she met a young man named Carl Begich, fell in love with him and married him in May of 1942.

In January, their child and my Mother, Susanne Catherine Begich, was born. A month later, Carl enlisted in the Army and was shipped out.

In the summer of 1945 Winifred received word that her husband was missing. For months she and his father, Michael Begich, begged the military for more information. In the Fall of 1945 they learned that Carl was dead, the circumstances unexplained.

By this point Winifred had been in California since mid-1943. With Carl’s passing, and her own extended family situation being what it was, Winnie decided to stay where she was near the Naval Weapons Station in the East Bay.

That was where she was living when she met Pascal Henry Caldwell.

The love story of Pat Caldwell and Winifred Begich is a fast one – and it is largely unknown.

He came home, they met, and on March 2, 1946, they married.

This is likely a wedding photo:

The Caldwells

Their domestic situation quickly developed.

In 1947 a new house was built on Detroit Ave in Concord. This would be my mother’s only remembered childhood home and the home where Bumpa would stay for the entirely of his time in California.

Over the ensuing years Pat and Winnie worked to build their home, connect with their neighbors and raise their daughter.

In order to make ends meet, Bumpa took on odd jobs repairing small engines like lawn mowers and doing project electrician work on the side.

Sometimes he volunteered his time in helping neighbors to rototill gardens or to put up fences. In later years during the 1950s, Pat would work with the Sheriff’s Office as a deputy.

During the years of flooding in nearby Pleasant Hill in the 1950s it was Deputy Caldwell, thanks to his experience with the floods he experienced in his youth in Louisiana, who would go to the rescue of local residents in his own small boat.

Since neither Pat or Winnie had family in California, they made friends with an older couple who lived near-by and who served as surrogate parents and sometimes-babysitters for young Cathi.

There is some evidence that either vacations or funerals took the Caldwell’s home to Louisiana twice during the decade of the 1950s. But no one from his family back home would ever make the way west for a visit. Connection “back home” happened through phone calls and letters.

Surviving photos of the 1950s in the Caldwell home show a typical lower middle-income existence. But beneath the relative tranquility of these years the reality is that the war had made wounded souls of both Pat and Winnie Caldwell.

They had each other and frequent escapes into alcohol that played a part in the home and, in particular, in the memory of my mother growing up.

Both Pat and Winnie became alcoholics. This made holidays like Christmas more of something to dread and it created drama that would impact all relationships in the home for years to come. This photo dates from a gathering in the Caldwell home in the 1950s:

Caldwells - 1950s

But there were happy memories, too.

Mom would tell of having a sleep-over birthday party with her friends and her father hosting the meal on the barbeque. She was active in school events and was always supported by her Mom and Dad.

There were camping trips and times when Bumpa would go hunting, taking Mother occasionally with him.

During my mother’s senior year she met my father.

As these things sometimes go, after high school graduation, my clearly pregnant mother eloped with my father to Reno, Nevada, where they attempted to get married. But, because Mom was only 17, she had to have the consent of her parents.

As Dad told me this story he said he had no choice but to call her parents and ask them to come to Reno. He decided as well to ask his parents to come. In the shakeout of events both sets of parents came to Reno together – in the same car.

Dad said this was the first-time meeting for both grandparents.

My grandparents could not have been more different from each other. They came from completely different worlds.

Dad said when they got to Reno he could tell they were civil if not polite to each other. They liked each other.

But Dad said the greetings from both Grandpa and Bumpa were “rather cool”. Both wanted to know how my father, a recent high school graduate with no skills and no job, planned to support my mother and their first grandchild.

In 1960, Bumpa was 38 years old – still very much a large man with an imposing physical presence. Dad admitted to me he was terrified of him.

The union of my parents opened a new era for nearly everyone involved. With the arrival of my brother in November of 1960 the Caldwells and the Westovers became first time grandparents.

That commonality was enough to bring diverse worlds together.

Over the years, as family gatherings multiplied, Pat and Winnie Caldwell became friends with Leon and Maurine Westover. They were kind, respectful and complimentary of each other. They gave each other space but conferred on items of concern with my parents. Both set of parents seemed adept at working together in helping to find solutions.

Family Gathering

This was a gathering in 1964. Pictured is Maurine Westover to the left, Pat Caldwell and my Mother on the right. That’s likely my big brother Jay in the middle.

Dad marveled at how well they got along, took joy in grandchildren together, and the respect shown between them for simply who they were.

For my father, on a personal level, his new in-laws represented a challenge.

They were unlike any people he had known in his own protected upbringing. The Westovers came from a long and celebrated heritage. There were dozens of them. The Caldwells had little extended family and they had troubles unlike my father had ever known.

But grandchildren seemed to level the playing field for everyone.

For Pat and Winnie Caldwell grandchildren brought unanticipated joy.

Nana and Bumpa, with Jay

Bumpa, ever the kid himself, delighted in getting down on the floor and playing at our level. Kids just made him laugh and the enduring memory of these early years with grandchildren are of Bumpa frequently throwing his head back in laughter at something a grandchild said or did.

Bumpa, with Jay

Nana – which is what Winnie wanted to be called as a Grandmother – thrilled in her grandbabies.

She too liked to get down on our level but she relished more just lavishing us with things and experiences. She loved to hug and to be hugged. She delighted in helping my mother to create worlds of play and imagination for us.

Mom and Bumpa

Debbie and Jay get introduced to the new swing, provided by Nana and Bumpa

Both sets of grandparents, after Jay was born and my parents returned home to California from Utah, wanted to help our young family take root and thrive. Both were committed to the cause.

My parents were able to purchase a new home, seemingly positioned in the middle of the two neighborhoods in Concord where they grew up. Nana and Bumpa helped with the down payment. Grandma and Grandpa Westover helped with the monthly payments (Grandma returned to work as a teacher to facilitate this).

Both sets of grandparents contributed to the improvement of the home, helping with projects both physically and financially. Holidays and vacations featured both sets of grandparents actively involved and we, the grandchildren, were center stage most of the time.

These were important years for both my parents in relation to their parents. There were many acts of kindness and some periods of forgiveness. My father began an 8-year journey to his college degree, with both sets of parents completely invested in his success.

As each of us was born, both grandparents were there and involved. Dad noted in recording his memories of his in-laws during these years that he softened in his views of them as a result of their consistent care for us.

He said he made the mistake of comparing my Mother’s parents to his own and admitted this was unfair to all of them.

Dad also said he learned a great deal in watching how his parents interacted with his in-laws. They did not curse the differences between but instead embraced what they held in common – which was us, the grandchildren.

Dad’s admiration for Bumpa, in particular, picked up over these years. He began to see the tender side Bumpa always showed my mother that she said that he had.

Bumpa was not a man to express his feelings in words. But he was a consistent caretaker, showing love through countless acts of thoughtful kindness. My mother knew this of Bumpa but my Dad needed the time to learn it.

There were trials as well as celebrations during these years that touched everyone.

My mother, after my little brother was born in 1965, suffered an ectopic pregnancy in 1966. Both grandmothers would assist with both my mother’s recovery and in our care as grandchildren as Mom endured a near-death experience.

In the early spring of 1967 another change rocked the worlds of the Westovers and the Caldwells. Winnie died at the young age of 49 due to liver failure brought on by alcoholism.
Grandma and Grandpa Westover rushed to help and very respectfully offered their love and condolences to Bumpa and to my mother.

Pat Caldwell was now a widower. Mostly alone – and that wasn’t something he wanted.

By the fall of 1967 he met and married a woman by the name of Marian.

This relationship, coupled with our later move from Concord to Lodi, California – changed the dynamics of everything.

For several years, there was little contact between Bumpa and the family.

It would be nearly a decade before reconnection was truly made.

~ The 1970s and Early 1980s ~

After we moved to Lodi, Bumpa and Marian came around during Christmas mostly. But it was a strained and awkward kind of relationship and time was never really given to connect through events like holidays.

During these years with Marian there were other changes in the life of Pat Caldwell. He began investing in local properties and trying to expand his wealth. At one time he owned a truck stop and a restaurant.

He also made great efforts to conquer the habits of tobacco and alcohol. He attended AA meetings and successfully put alcohol out of his life. Tobacco would bring a new level of struggle altogether and one that he continued to battle for years.

He retired from the Navel Weapons station as he invested in more properties. He became a landlord with rental units in several Bay Area communities. He spent his time fixing them up and renting them out.

Marian was his willing partner in all of these ventures. But while his wealth expanded their relationship deteriorated. From 1974 through the middle of 1977 we saw very little of him and when we did see him during these years he was alone.

We have on record three different divorce decrees from 1975, 1976 and 1977. He shared little of what happened between him and Marian but would grouse over the years afterwards about how much it all cost him.

Then, Bumpa’s health took an ominous turn.

In late 1978 my mother got a call from Kaiser hospital in Walnut Creek. Bumpa had had a heart attack.

This new trial rekindled their relationship. Not only did Bumpa not have anyone else to call he needed to reconnect. He was alone and at war a bit with his past. His first step was to address things with my mother.

Things in the years since my mother married and had children had “settled” between her and Bumpa – but only in the sense that they didn’t talk about the bad times or the things that had transpired.

This unfinished business would in time need to be addressed.

For my mother, there was an identity crisis of sorts just in being his step-child and no longer having her mother to connect them.

Bumpa as well needed to make it somehow known how much he loved Nana and how much he still needed my mother. All these issues and more were addressed during this health crisis.

While Bumpa was in the hospital my siblings and I went to see him with Mom. He had not changed in our view. He was ever the tease. He seemed to still take great joy in us.

When he asked my brother and I to go next door to a local grill to secure him some “decent food”, we looked to Mom for approval. Mom said we could get him anything he wanted as long as it wasn’t cigarettes.

He was there for some time and I recall going to see him on my own a couple of times with my brother. Each time he had us bring him in “contra-band”.

After several weeks, Bumpa got out of the hospital and returned home and to work. But within a few months, he had another, more serious, heart attack and was again in the hospital.
This time he came home with us and delayed going back to any kind of work for a while.

This time it scared him.

He wanted my Mother to be involved not only in his care but also he wanted recovery and a plan for the future. Mom was “it” at that time.

It was also a time for emotional healing and looking out for his future.

Over the course of the next couple of years he grappled with the idea of leaving all that he had built up in California to return home to Louisiana.

Mother encouraged him to go home. She knew he was unhappy and felt alone. Mom knew that Bumpa needed peers as well as herself and his grandchildren in his life. She just felt that if he could reconnect with his siblings and life as he remembered it before he left he might be happier.

Around 1980 after his health had sufficiently recovered, he visited “home” in Louisiana. He was kindly if not enthusiastically received by all.

He came back to California with a plan to liquidate his properties and return to Louisiana for good. For what seemed like months my brothers and I were charged in helping him clean up properties as he sold them and to clear out 40 years of living in his house.

On Saturdays we would put the sideboards up on his truck and fill it with unwanted items from his garage and yard. There we many useful things that he no longer anticipated needing – tools and equipment that worked just fine.

But in my estimation there was also no small level of just junk – old coffee cans of nuts and bolts and nails, a rusty shovel, a broken lamp, a worn workbench and a wheel barrow with a flat tire.

We loaded up the night before, got up early and had breakfast before heading out to the flea market. There we unloaded the truck, spreading out all the stuff on the ground.

As the morning passed and the people showed up, I was amazed that they would even look at the stuff. But look they did and when they found something they wanted they’d ask, “How much?” and Bumpa would give a gruff, ridiculously inflated price for an item.

I recall one lady asked about the cost of a screwdriver.

He looked at her and said, $7 without even batting an eye. It was truly an outrageous asking price. She protested. “I can get a new one for less than half the price at the store.”

“Then go to the store”, was all he said.

She put the screwdriver down and walked away. I just looked at him, but he didn’t look back. He was going to get the price he wanted.

Another man, a Hindu, inquired about the price of an item. Bumpa named his price and the man said it was too much and offered a lower price.

Bumpa said “You can go to hell before I sell it to you for that.”

The man was genuinely offended. “Go to hell? What does this mean?” Bumpa, looking at him closer, could see he was a humble man. He could see he was offended and didn’t understand.
Bumpa went up to the man, looked him in the eye, and said, “If I sell it to you for my price, I’ll be in heaven. If I sell it to you for your price, I’ll go to hell. I don’t want to go to hell. You can go to hell, but not me.”

The man was shocked.

“You really believe you go to hell for selling this to me?” Bumpa, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

The man laughed. He offered a higher price – not much more – and Bumpa accepted it and shook the man’s hand.

These days at the flea market were legendary days to me. Bumpa was in his element and as a child of the Depression stuck to his guns. He always left with a huge wad of cash and no small amount of self-satisfaction.

These were days of sharing philosophy between us. I was quite nearly a grown man and we had many, many hours together at his properties and at the flea market. Our conversations covered a lot of topics – from politics to religion to employment to cars to family relationships.

What made the biggest impression on me during these conversations was how respectful Bumpa was of me for having a contrary opinion. I found it uncomfortable to disagree with him on so many things and he seemed to sense that.

When I would take a stand on something he felt differently about he might stare at me for a minute and then say, “Okay. I understand what you are saying.” He never tried to convince me or tell me I was wrong. He honestly didn’t want a debate.

He just would affirm that we disagreed and it was okay. To say that I developed a lot of trust and admiration in him because of this is an understatement.

I was becoming a fan, to be honest. While I thought many different things than he did I really began to admire his toughness and his commitment.

I also began to appreciate his adult humor, which was subtle. Bumpa did like to laugh and I liked to make him laugh.

We went through a drive thru and were served by someone with a heavy accent.

He got frustrated because he felt he wasn’t being listened to when the person on the speaker could not repeat back his order. He nearly gave up on the whole thing. So I leaned over him in the truck and spoke into the speaker with a fake accent.

He leaned back and started laughing uncontrollably as I pretended to place the order and fake understanding what was being said.

We pulled forward and paid for our order, not having a clue what was coming in the way of food. He looked at me, smiling, as bag after bag of food was passed through the window. “I wonder what’s for lunch?” he said, laughing the whole time.

I got to the point where I could be sarcastic or funny and not worry about what he thought.

Bumpa was constantly fighting the urge to smoke.

I worked in a drugstore that was on the opposite end of town from where he mostly worked but he made it a habit to learn when I was working.
He would come in and get in line at my check stand and then ask for cigarettes.

I would tell him we were sold out, even though I was standing with my back to a display packed with cigarettes.

“We have lots of gum though,” I told him.

So, he would buy gum. This was the game we played as he tried to master the tobacco habit.

One day he came into the store. He said, “Can you take a break? There’s something I want you to see.”

I took a break and went with him out to the parking lot. There he showed me a 1969 AMC Rebel – as grandma a car as a grandma car can be.
“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your first car,” he said. “I think you should buy it.”

He handed me the keys and even though I was not yet even a licensed driver he let me take it on a spin around the parking lot. I didn’t care that it was a grandma car. I didn’t care that it was ugly. I didn’t care that it even ran.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“$500 dollars. Do you have that much money?”

“Yes!” I said, somewhat proudly.

“Good. Because I already bought the car. You can just pay me.” So, I had my first car long before I could drive. Bumpa dabbled in selling used cars and he took great pleasure in helping several of his grandchildren get into cars.

Sometime later he came home with a 1969 Olds Cutlass, a true muscle car. My brothers and I salivated over that car but he said it was for my big sister. My mother hated that car.

Mom later told me that she would only allow Bumpa to get that car for Debbie, and not for any of us boys. He knew what it was, of course, but even more he knew who was in charge.

Bumpa rarely tried to parent us or to lecture us on anything. But, he was sensitive to my mother and my father.

Once, he was at the house as I came home from school and my Mother was handing out chores. I gave my Mom a look – just a look – when she asked me to do something I didn’t want to do. I didn’t say anything.

But Bumpa saw that look and he said, “Mama gets what Mama wants, you understand me?” Yes, sir.

Bumpa finally did leave – after securing a used Ford LTD (helluva a car, he said) – to take him back home in 1981.

~ Going Home ~

We were surprised when Bumpa got back to Louisiana to hear from him with some regularity. It was as if he wanted us to know and understand what his world now was.
His frequent calls created big desire to see him and the new life he had found. He always called my Mom and this was something I could tell just thrilled her. The world seemed to stop when Bumpa called.

Before too long he was telling Mom about Mary. Mary was a little bit younger than Bumpa and seemed to enjoy Bumpa’s company a great deal. He was crazy about her.
Mom knew it would just be a matter of time before he married her. In November 1982, it happened.

Mary Beach had a life before Pat Caldwell. Pat Caldwell had been through a lot before he found Mary Beach. But when they found each other it opened up a sweet new chapter for them both.
Mary Beach had raised her family singlehandedly. Without accepting government assistance she worked many jobs to support her many children. She was a soft-spoken, gentle, Christian lady of great faith.

And she was perfect for Pat Caldwell.

After they married they came out to California a couple of times to complete unfinished business and to allow Mary to get to know my mother and our family. We grew instantly in love with her, too.

Bumpa and Mary settled into a retired couple’s routine – traveling to see children and grandchildren, taking in military reunions and shows in Branson, Missouri.

At home, Mary created a home next to family. Pat kept a legendary garden, and fussed over the old place, as he called his parent’s home.

In 1987 my Grandma Westover died. Bumpa made sure to send his final respects. A year later, Grandpa passed and he repeated the gesture, making sure to connect with my father in sharing respectful condolences.

Dad recalled telling Bumpa that with his parents gone he needed Bumpa in his life.

Bumpa didn’t know what to say.

With some difficulty he said he hoped he could be of help. It was as close as Bumpa could come to saying the word “love”.

We did go see Bumpa, the following spring. I was able to be on that trip because I wanted to see Bumpa and the world he came from.

He did not disappoint.

On the first night of our visit, he asked me if I wanted to “run out to the old place”. I said “sure”.

Within minutes we were in his truck – the same old truck we took to the flea market years before – heading the short distance from his current house to the house he grew up in.
Bumpa had a way of just doing things his way. True to form, we turned a corner and he pointed with one hand over the wheel – “There it is.”

And with that the truck left the road and we just shot straight across the field, making a bee line for the old house, the truck bouncing over the furrows.

Bumpa, a little older now and slumped a little bit on the old bench seat, just bounced up and down with the truck. He gave me a side-eye and a little smile. He was putting on a show and we both knew it. But I played along and tried not to hang on for dear life.

What I learned on this trip were things he was never forward with me before when it came to his early life. Coming home and reconnecting with his siblings had rebuilt his pride about his upbringing. He wanted to talk about it and was anxious even to share.

He showed me the house. He showed me the barn and where they kept the mules.

Then he took me to the cemetery and showed me the graves of his parents. He told me about the headstone he had planned for himself and for Mary. On the backside of that stone would be an engraved picture of a farm boy at the plough.

That was who he was. He was proud of it.

Mother really wanted to get some updated pictures. That night in front of the old place we got some great pictures of Bumpa, Mary and my Mother.

Mom and Bumpa, 1988

One of the things I love about those pictures now is the great relaxation they convey. Love just comes from what I see there.

By this time, I guess you could call me an adult – fully 25 years old. Even still, Bumpa wanted to show me a good time just as his grandson. I had told him over the phone a few years before of an experience I had going to the horse races and how much I had enjoyed that.

When we got to Louisiana he made a special point of taking me to Louisiana Downs. “Have you ever been to a stakes race?” he asked me. The truth was that I had only seen quarter horse races and played a few computer simulation games.

This place was top drawer. The grandstand was encased in glass, all air conditioned with white linens on the tables. We were woefully under-dressed, as if that mattered at all to Bumpa, but we had a fun day.

We didn’t place a single bet. We ate like kings. We handicapped every race and had a lot of fun previewing the horses and giving our best guesses of who would win – all the while enjoying a relaxed conversation about his world as a child in Louisiana.

During the course of this day he admitted to me the love he had for his parents, especially his mother. He talked to Nana and what she meant to him. And he talked of my mother. These were not easy things for him to talk about.

Mary, Bumpa and Mom

The trips back and forth between Louisiana and California continued for a few years.

After I married Bumpa and Mary came out when my wife was expecting in the early summer of 1992.

They stayed at the house and had a nice visit, meeting my wife and my own step-daughter for the first time.

My wife Sandy connected with Bumpa instantly. He reminded her of her father.

And he was just so impressed with her. He told me privately as we sat outside by the BBQ that I had chosen well. He told me I was lucky. Like my mother, he told me not to mess it up.
Bumpa’s way of reading people was, I think, one of his most surprising and unrealized talents. He knew the character of my dear wife in minutes.

I found he had not lost his touch when it came to the small kids.

My nephew, Matthew, was just a little guy at that time and in a moment of fun he stuffed a ball under his shirt and placed himself tummy to tummy with Sandy, who was a good 8 months along at this time.

Sandy and Matt

Bumpa saw this cute little exchange and, as was his way, threw back his head and laughed out loud.

He never stopped taking great joy in the children.

One day in late September of 1996 I got a call from Mary – which was highly unusual. She told me that Bumpa’s health was precarious and that my Mom needed to know. She called me because she could not reach her by phone at home. My parents were in Hawaii at the time.

I was able to chase them down and within a day Mom and Dad were on their way to Louisiana.

When they arrived it was clear that Bumpa was in a state of advanced decline. As Mom would later tell the story, Bumpa told her he did not know how to die.

What he meant by that was that he believed there was an afterlife. This, I think, came more from his war experience than anything else.

His religious training was sparse, at best. I can remember the few occasions when I saw Bumpa in church – he was respectful but quiet.

I can recall when I made a decision to go on a mission and I wondered what he thought about that. Before I went we barely discussed it. When I told him I planned to go, he just said, “Good”.

I wondered upon my return if I could ever find a way to share the experience with him. All we ever really talked about was the weather. He was present on two occasions when I was able to share stories with my family. He was, as usual, respectful and quiet. He did not ask any questions.

Religious thought and beliefs were just not a topic of conversation – ever, for whatever reason.

When we had family prayer or blessings over the meals, he merely nodded, said “amen” and moved on. He never said a word about it.
But here he was in his final days asking my Mother something spiritually significant and most definitely very personal.

Mom, who knew this day was coming and understood perfectly what he was asking.

She had endured a couple of near-death experiences associated with pregnancies during her child bearing years. She had shared with Bumpa and with Nana what she had gone through and they had, as was their way, listened with interest and concern.

For Mom this was one of the most important moments in her life as it related to Bumpa.

It was a first in many respects. It meant a great deal to her that Bumpa would reach out with something so personal.

They had spent some time talking over many of his affairs and final wishes. They also spent a lot of time reminiscing and looking at old photos. Mother shared with me that while at the table with papers and pictures scattered on the surface he asked her what to expect in going to the other side.

Mary was present for this conversation and added her thoughts and feelings and experiences. Mary was a spiritual woman. Mother told me it was as if she and Mary could in those moments read each other’s thoughts.

Mom told me it was, as things usually were with Bumpa, a candid and straight-forward conversation. He nodded a lot and seemed to be satisfied with what he heard.

He excused himself and headed for the bedroom. After a few minutes they went to check on him and found that he had laid down on the bed and that he had passed.

As we gathered for his funeral I witnessed my mother in a state that was unfamiliar to me. While I had seen her act many times as a daughter it seemed his funeral was when I saw Mom most act like Bumpa.

She was direct, very clear in what needed to be done, and dead serious in seeing it was done right.

When they took his body to the funeral home Mom insisted that we stay there with him all night. He was never to be alone, not even for a minute.

After the services the following day we went to the cemetery and did not leave until he was completely in the ground and there was nothing more to be done. She saw to every detail exactly as he and Mary wanted it.

I finally figured out what Mom was really doing.

Bumpa had arranged all of his affairs to take care of everyone as best he could. He frequently did that, all the days of his life.

He sent money home to his parents in their final years. He sent money to loved ones enduring different trials. He made sure, many times during my Mother’s life, that she did not want for anything.

He always made sure help arrived. Bumpa was never satisfied until he knew the job as done. He was thorough. My mother, if left to her own devices, would do things her way. But not this time. She was looking at it all through his eyes and doing it as she knew he would do it. It was a tribute to this man who was her father.

I watched both of my parents weep at his passing. That was a curious thing to me.

Bumpa’s love and greatness did not come from his abilities to express love through words. They came from his abilities to show and extend love.

Many people, his family, neighbors and friends we did not know said the same things to us about him at his funeral.

For my father, with whom I’ve shared recollections about Bumpa many times since the day he passed, Bumpa was a man who learned from his mistakes and tried hard to master himself.

Dad felt that Bumpa’s strategy in avoiding the past was actually a good thing in helping him to get past the challenges of the present.

But even in avoiding things that needed to be addressed – the days of his youth, the war experience, the alcoholism, the drama in the home – he actually did have to make peace with all those things.

In time Bumpa learned to do that.

When I look back at Bumpa’s final year I cannot express enough the gratitude I have for Mary Caldwell. She centered him in so many ways. Not only were his last years happy they were years where he learned to fully confront things that were difficult for him. Mary patiently bore his stubborn tendencies and urged him to get past them.

Mary continually told him he was loved, which he needed to hear after so many years of being emotionally alone. Mary taught him to even express love in better ways that previously seemed out of his reach.

In my father’s final days in 2021 he expressed to me a regret that more has not been done to remember Pat Caldwell.

In sharing this history it is our hope that the lessons of his life can contribute to our family. We also feel the need to collect additional memories and stories of Bumpa’s life.

If you have such to share, please contact us.

Family History

Why It Matters More Now

Three years ago I produced the video below for Roots Tech. They were holding a contest for their annual family history event. Their purposes for such a video are obvious but for me it meant more.

The video is a variant of a theme I had produced earlier in another video about the importance of photography in family history. It was a personal project, one that made me weep then and one that still evokes great emotion – which is kind of the point of the message of the video, too.

Of course, I didn’t place in the contest. But the video has been used in a few church family history events and occasionally I get comments from folks who stumble upon it.

But the video has another story I feel compelled to share:

Winter of 2019, when the video was made, was the last time Roots Tech was held in Salt Lake City.

That was just a different time altogether. So much has changed for us all since then.

Back then my home was filled with children and grandchildren. I was working at a different place. The world at large was hardly at peace but it was not the drama and chaos it has since become.

My Dad at that time was living quite independently and getting along pretty well. He was traveling, enjoying visits with family at various events and keeping his cancer in check.

As with most things associated with this website and my efforts in family history Dad was supportive.

His journey with family history was different than mine. But in time this video shifted it all for him.

~ Dad’s Family History Journey ~

Our heritage has always been special to my father. It was just how he was raised. My grandparents were, in my view, pioneers of family history.

In my “treasure room” I have among my father’s things a file box that belonged to my grandparents. In it are examples of how family history was done in the 1940s to the 1970s. There are lots of family group sheets – and copies of letters sent to various entities seeking records of ancestors.

I often wonder what Grandpa and Grandma would think of the Internet and all we do with family history today. Grandpa, I know, would take to it like a fish to water.

In the days of my father’s upbringing family history was celebrated with stories, reunions, pictures and gospel discussion about why it is important.

But as the video suggests my interest and love of family history came as a result of my mother, not my father.

It’s not that Dad wasn’t interested.

Dad just figured a lot of his family history was “done”. He didn’t have the at-the-ready memory of all family past stories of my grandparents but he held his own pretty well. And that’s because it was just the culture of his family growing up to talk of those who had gone before.

But Dad didn’t have a Book of Remembrance. He never created or even looked at a family tree. His was, like many people, a secondary level of involvement. Family history for Dad was something of a spectator sport.

Dad’s family history journey took an unexpected turn when he met and married my mother. My mom was an only child and came from a difficult and disjointed family history situation. Hers was a blank slate and Dad did quite a bit to help my mother discover her family.

Because family history was important in the culture of his family growing up my Dad helped my Mom with her family history – at least for the sake of us kids. But again, while Dad lent his talents to the effort it someone else – my Mother – who put together the groups sheets, the photos and that side of the family tree.

In 1984, after returning home from a mission, I was living and going to school in Salt Lake City. I got a call one day from my father telling me that Grandma was coming to Utah to visit her sister, Aunt Elma, and to visit the brand new Family History Library adjacent to Temple Square. My job was to pick her up at the airport and to take Grandma and Aunt Elma wherever they required. Dad made me call him every day to see that all needs were met.

It was an easy assignment for me and I so enjoyed their company I moved my schedule around as best I could to be with them all day long. So I got to visit the brand new library as well.

In going there Grandma showed me how it was organized and how I could find information. In no time I was threading microfilm into readers and making copies of filmed documents. Wisely, Grandma instructed me to work on my mother’s line because she knew those records would be there and easily found.

She was right. I found stuff almost instantly and began calling my Mom each day as well with news of my discoveries. It ended up being a very exciting week for both Mother and me and it most certainly lit the fire of addiction in my family history pursuits.

~ My Own Family History Journey ~

This opened a dialogue between me and both of my parents about family history.

I made the decision after that week’s experience to drive to Minnesota, where my mother’s father’s family still lived. My goal was to meet my great grandmother, who was still alive.

I discussed this with my cousin, Bunni, and her father, Pete, my great uncle. They were supportive and felt it could happen and that it would be a good thing.

My Mom was very nervous about it. She had heard rumors of difficulties and misunderstandings between her mother and various family members after her Dad died in World War II. Of course, she never knew her father or his family. Her mother remarried after the war and for whatever reasons they were never in her life.

So Mom’s reticence about me going to Minnesota was perfectly understandable. She was still supportive and hopeful.

Dad, on the other hand, was not convinced all this was a great idea. He wanted me to wait. It had more to do with him just being a Dad concerned about a 21-year old son driving cross country by himself to somewhere he had never been before.

Well, I went. It was a joyous experience, one that left me with more questions than answers. But also one that allowed me to meet so many good people – family! – that I have never known. I also came home with copies of precious pictures and a more complete understanding of this largely unknown branch of the family.

No, I did not get to meet Grandma Begich. It was not in her heart to give in to the pleadings of Pete and Bunni and that was because in the tenderness of a mother’s heart it was still too much to deal with after losing her son in the war.

My Mom was a little hurt by that. She took that as a rejection. It would take her many years to come to understand. My Dad was frustrated by it too.

But there were hidden blessings by that whole experience. It fueled continued discussions between us, one that drove our efforts to seek out more information about my mother’s family.

It gave all three of us – Mom, Dad and me – a common goal that proved foundational in the years ahead of family history exploration.

~ The Video: All Sides of the Family ~

When I put the video together of course Dad and I talked about it.

Being who he was as an educator and a producer of television and video productions Dad peppered me with questions about my choices for the video.

One of his observations was that I began the video on his side – the ancient Westover family history we know – but ended it on my Mother’s side of the family. He thought that this would be confusing to people.

I learned long ago that when teaching a class or giving a talk my Dad would dissect it as if he was the one putting it together. As such, he always began with the objective – what’s the point of what you’re saying? – he would always ask.

Four or five years ago Dad and I both taught Gospel Doctrine for a period of time. Our Sunday phone calls would frequently become a gospel discussion of our lessons and how we would teach them.

I frustrated Dad a great deal because I never approached my church teaching with his methods of having a lesson objective at the top. In fact, I rarely went into these lessons with notes. I had studied and I had prepared. But I had learned as a missionary that gospel teaching was something different.

We didn’t disagree in these conversations. But we challenged each other and commiserated about our teaching experiences. It was a fun time, at least for me.

But when it came to this video, Dad was a little bit bothered, I could tell, and for a while I thought it was because my free-wheeling style was just too uncomfortable for him.

I learned later I was completely wrong about that.

This video turned out to be the catalyst that took Dad off the sidelines of family history.

In the late summer of 2020, as the pandemic raged, I continued my weekly phone calls with Dad as we isolated 100 miles apart. I grew concerned in these calls as with each passing week he seemed to sound worse and worse. I wanted to come see him but he refused, insisting he was fine and that we needed to stay within the guidelines of not gathering as family.

By the last week of September, he sounded so bad I just defied him and showed up at his door.

Conditions were not good. He absolutely needed help.

But I had not even been there for 20 minutes when a phone call came in that created no small amount of chaos for us both. His Covid test was positive and I was now exposed. The now familiar-to-everyone family drama ensued. I was forced now to isolate – 100 miles away from my family and my brand new job – and Dad was now forced to contend with the virus as a cancer patient.

That began my 15-month journey of taking up residence with my terminally ill father that would see him eventually pass away in November of 2021. That also began a new level of discussion about all things family history.

That discussion really began with picking this video apart. One night in October 2020 Dad and I pulled the video up and stopped it at each image. Then from a laptop on his bed, he compared the names and faces to where they landed on the family tree.

Finally, Dad was taking the deep dive we all need to take when it comes to family history: how does all this apply to me? How do I fit in with these people?

That five hour discussion – of both his family and my mother’s family – led to tears, something that was rare to see from my father at that point.

He already had an appreciation of his family and an abiding love for his heritage. But now he had details. Now he had personal connection. And it set him on fire.

During Dad’s last 15 months he fought all kinds of crazy physical sickness. But when he could set that aside he became very focused on family history. He began to piece in his mind ways to better share the history and connection with other family members.

He started working on writing my mother’s history and then working on his own. As I would work on my various projects we would discuss them and Dad began to embed himself in everything.

My projects became his projects, and his mine.

Last spring, in 2021, after many discussions with LaRee and Will, Dad found the energy to go on a little tour of cemeteries in southern and central Utah. What made it neat was to see him connect with ancestor past by recalling his own early years in Southern Utah and the places he lived there. He never knew – and likely because my grandparents never realized or knew – that they lived in the very shadows where beloved pioneer family members did their pioneering.

Dad and Me

It was thrilling to watch Dad connect his early childhood to those ancestors who were right there less than 100 years before he was born. Though his body was falling apart and challenged with getting through the long days of that trip it fueled inspiration in how Dad felt the family story could better be told.

Even while we traveled Dad began to make plans for written histories, videos, and website features to, as he explained it to me, “get people to look at the tree and connect”.

In fact, on the day he unexpectedly died, we had refreshed the list and prioritized it. He wanted to get back out there. He wanted more pictures, more videos and more understanding that could be found.

His list is now my list. I know exactly what he envisioned and frankly I don’t know if I have enough years left to accomplish it. That’s how ambitious Dad became about family history.

We last watched this video together about two weeks before he passed. At the time, I had gone to bring home my wife from caring for her folks so she could be home for the birth of a new grandchild. Dad was very invested in my daughter’s pregnancy and he was anxious for the little boy that would come to us.

On the night we watched this video again he told me that I had to make sure this new baby would see that video when he was old enough. I found it kind of a curious charge – because my goal has always been to get this video in front of the eyes of my kids and grands.

Dad passed in the early morning hours of November 16th. Baby Bennett was born later that same day.

Yes, the video, which already meant a lot, means more now.

That’s my lesson on several levels. It was also Dad’s lesson in his family history journey.

I have over the past several months since he left contemplated what it must have been like when he unexpectedly crossed over.

He knew faces. He knew names and dates. He understood connections.

This is what family history does for us. I think we all come around to it a little differently.

I don’t condemn my Dad – or anyone else – for being so absorbed by life of the present to the point where delving into life of the past is impossible. We have to grow up, get educated, build careers, and manage the stuff of the here and now. I get it. I was there for 50 years and guilty of not really getting into it.

The point is not when. The point is not whether you have the skills or the technology to do it.

The point is that we can. Despite it all, we really can. And we really need to. And it’s really worth it.