Maurine Westover, Topaz 1943

A Gift That Keeps Giving

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It has been a tough year for me with family history. Life and circumstance have kept me far from my goals. Much of the feeling of accomplishment I have experienced this year has come more from enjoying the successes of others. I have felt bad about that, almost as if I’m letting so many others down.

But as the months have turned I’ve been tempered in those feelings. The work of family history is not a race (yet) and it will forever be something that just needs work and love and time and attention.

Sometimes you seek out family history, and at other times it seeks you out.

That has been my blessing in so many ways this year.

Dad has asked me, and it has been our tradition here, to share Grandma’s Christmas talk where she tells the story of a Christmas she spent as a schoolteacher in Topaz, Utah.

Here again is that video. I want you to watch it again, paying particular attention to her telling the story of Topaz. Then press on to read the rest of the story from just this year:

More than 20 years ago I wrote a story for one of my websites, MyMerryChristmas.com — it was the story Grandma tells in the video, or at least my best recollection of it.

It is a significant thing to me because I did not have access to the video above when I wrote the story.

I knew Dad had the video and I knew it was archived somewhere but I had not seen it in years and I wrote the story based on a long ago memory.

What I may not have recognized then, in those infant days of the Internet, was that story would be copied and used on other websites, most often without my knowledge or permission.

That is where a woman by the name of Amy Denison saw the story.

Here it is years later and she looked me up on Facebook and sent this message, asking if I was the same Jeff Westover who authored the story:

The reason I am asking is because my mom, June Takiuchi Middo, was in Topaz during the war. She was 8 years old when her family was interned. She always spoke highly of her “Mormon school teacher” who started a brownie troop for the girls. If Maurine Westover was your relative, could you please message me back. I have a photo of Mrs. Westover’s class (which includes my mom) that I would love to share with you.

Of course, I was thrilled to receive her message.

I eagerly replied, affirming indeed that Maurine Westover is my grandmother, sending her a link to Grandma’s video sharing her Topaz Christmas experience, just so she could see Grandma’s countenance and share in her spirit.

She wrote back: My mom and her parents always spoke so highly of the LDS Church. They were very accepting when, 30 years ago, I took the missionary discussions and got baptized. The Church has been such a blessing in my life! My husband and I were sealed in the LA Temple 27 years ago. We have 3 children, two who have served missions, and our youngest son is preparing to serve a mission too. I know that your grandma, because she showed such love for the Japanese people, was planting seeds of faith that eventually led to my joining the Church.

Having a shared background in the Church I’m sure Sister Denison knew the thrill was providing for me — and now for you.

There are so many lessons from this.

Her mother is still living, although she is quite elderly and suffers from advanced dementia.

Nevertheless, she shared a photo with me of her mother watching Grandma’s video and seeing herself in the photo, too.

The Topaz years were a relatively short chapter in the lives of my grandparents. But those war years were so life changing for everyone of those generations and I cannot help but wonder the fuller story of Amy’s grandparents and all they endured.

It is quite something to consider how time and circumstance threw people together then — and that those experiences still share space today.

Amy was also kind enough to share this photo of her mother with her parents, also taken while they were in Topaz:

As I create a record of this blessed family history moment from 2017 I cannot help but ponder a bit the words of Clarence, from It’s A Wonderful Life, to George Bailey — “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives.”

As I get older, I feel a bit frozen in time with Grandma. I was so very fortunate to know her when I was a child and as an adult. But in my mind she’s exactly as you see her in the video above. Time has changed nothing about her.

I’m sure, wherever Grandma is, she remembers June Takiuchi Middo as the 8 year old child she is in the pictures, even though June is 84 years old today. Time and age make us all so temporary.

But love is permanent. There is no doubt, in my heart, that in a coming day there will be no age difference between Grandma and June when they reunite. There will be only love, because that was what was there so long ago.

What powerful lessons these are. I cannot imagine some 70+ years from now anyone contacting one of my grandchildren to share something about me. But if that by chance happens I can only hope that love would be my legacy, too, just as it has been for Grandma.

May God bless Amy Denison and her family. They have given me a most precious gift this year, one I will never forget.

Alexander Westover

The Dead Among Us

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The other night I was visiting in my living room with a neighbor, a man I have only come to know in the past year or so.

As we were chatting he suddenly looked slightly to the right towards a window on the south wall of the room and his eyes got suddenly very large.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude but there’s a spirit over there by the window — a very good one.”

I kind of wish I had video of my reaction to this comment. I was surprised not at all. I asked him if the spirit was a man or a woman.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell. I can’t really see features, it is just something I sense. This is someone close to you,” he told me. “Someone you know very well and who knows you. I get such a warm feeling.”

Without much thought I said, “That’s my Mom.”

I pointed to a picture of her on the wall over his left shoulder. He looked up at the picture and gasped.

“That’s who it is!” he said.

And then, as if talking about the weather, he asked, “Does she visit you often?”

I had to think about my answer to that question. My first inclination was to immediately say “no”.

I miss my Mom something fierce. I have been blessed not to have lost a lot of loved ones in my life, so losing my mother has been a new kind of experience for me, one that has surprised me many times with new emotions and feelings. In the more than two years since her passing I cannot say all the feelings associated with her loss have diminished much within me.

I had a long time to prepare for her passing.

I have studied and have learned and been taught all my life about the plan of salvation and I think I understand it.

But that still didn’t prepare me for all I would feel when death actually touched someone so close to me in my life.

Those feelings are very sacred to me and even still very close to the surface, tender at times, I admit.

But while I think of my mother often, especially when I work on things associated with her, I sometimes can sense how close she is.

And by “close” I mean close as in proximity. It is difficult to explain because it is not so much a feeling of physical closeness but more of an awareness of her knowing something important in real time as it happens.

It is a spiritual feeling but not quite like feeling the Spirit.

It is new to me and very hard for me to articulate.

But unlike my friend, who clearly has a special spiritual gift, I have NOT seen spirits and cannot lay claim to such manifestations.

I have known a few others in my life, my mother ironically, who had experiences like that. But it is not my gift.

But I have no problem seeing how real this all is and that was likely why he was so surprised about my reaction to what he witnessed. He was afraid I would think he was crazy or that such candid sharing between us would result in a change in our relationship.

But he’s not crazy, I believed what he said he saw and to me it is as real as anything else seen in this life.

I’ll tell you why.

Somewhere in these pages I’m sure I’ve told you about my experience working on the name of Francis Welty, one of my mother’s family from the 19th century.

As I was working on validating names from a family group for the temple I stumbled upon Francis, who my mother had identified in her records as a daughter of George Welty, her 3rd great grandfather.

But in later records (records I don’t think Mom in her time had access to) I didn’t find Francis, a daughter of George — I found Frank — a son, of George Welty.

It was the first time I had found a mistake in my mother’s research and I felt funny changing something she had done in FamilySearch.

As I sat here at my keyboard thinking about that for a minute I sensed a very warm feeling of confirmation and I felt my mother very, very close — like right behind me. It was as if she was saying, “That’s right. Fix it.”

I did not feel her hand on my shoulder and I did not actually hear her voice. But that is how I felt in that particular moment.

It was real. I was at my desk in a rocking chair and I stopped myself from leaning back, out of fear of hitting her foot — that’s how close she felt and how real that moment was to me.

We have been promised we would have our dead among us as we work on Family History and this is one of my most certain experiences that testifies to that truth. I cannot claim many such moments but I claim that one and I’m grateful for it.

As I have taken Uncle Frank’s work to the temple I reflect on the experience every time and each time I receive validation of what work is being done.

But there are other times, times unexpected I would say, that I feel my mother close by.

Whenever I have time to do things with my grandchildren I often get a feeling that my mother is aware and likewise delighting in a moment with me.

I have also had a sense of my mother’s awareness at key family events, including even when my father remarried earlier this year. Who would have expected that?

Even recently, as I’ve dealt with some difficult but normal teenage-years stuff with my two youngest at home, I have felt my mother’s presence.

All of this was not something I expected.

In fact, I have formed the opinion that if I were to pass away and go to the other side and see my mother I would have no news to share because she already knows it all. Such thoughts give me great comfort.

Losing my mother, I knew at the time, meant going through a physical separation from her. I was with her in her dying moments. I felt that immediately and I felt it keenly. Days later, as I looked upon her physical form for the final time in this life, the cold, stark reality of her absence from her body was shocking and even horrifying to me. I touched her arm and she did not feel it. I’ll never forget that.

But it is almost because of that moment that all the other times now when I sense her presence the feeling is so real and so important to me.

So in answer to my friend’s question about Mom visiting me often I said “yes”. But I did explain that I had never seen her, only felt her presence.

On the same wall as the window where my friend had this experience is the pioneer trail map I gave my Dad a couple of years ago, and on it appear several pictures of pioneer family members who, of course, I have never met.

“What about those people?” he asked me. “Have you felt them here as well?”

“No,” I said.

We didn’t have the time for me to explain what I knew about each of them and how I have come to know them these past five years. I wish I could have explained.

But my friend only nodded. Then he said something that again surprised me not at all. He has been in my home many times now and that pioneer map has not always been here. In fact, I only recently hung it on that living room wall.

“They know YOU,” he said. “They come here too. Your home is filled with people some times, I have seen it. It is always a good feeling and that is not always the case when these things happen to me.”

Now that blows me away.

The Treasure Room

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Years ago my mother made a gift of our baby books and photos of each of us growing up. These were given in small, lockable treasure chests. And as she expected we each reviewed the contents of our treasure chests with a mixture of wonder and delight.

This weekend I have set up what I am calling the Treasure Room.

It is actually the abandoned bedroom of one of my adult children who has recently moved out. What I have moved into it are the remnant treasures my parents collected over their years and that they inherited, in part, from their parents.

We have spent two weekends and two rental trucks depositing stuff into the Treasure Room. I estimate there are easily a quarter of a million more pictures to go through, when you count all the work and scenic photos my Dad was fond of taking.

I likewise estimate it will take me a solid ten years of concentrated effort to go through it all and decide what to archive and what to throw out

Tonight in moving the last of it all off the truck and into the Treasure Room I came across this image in a file box belonging to my grandfather. I have more than 3,000 of his images but I’m not certain I have seen this one:

This is Loris and Zola — siblings to my Grandpa — in 1923, I’m guessing. The photo had their names on the back and I’m just guessing at the date. About two years separated them and Zola may not be quite a year old in this picture.

Weren’t they beautiful children?

If someone out there knows the circumstances behind this photo or perhaps can explain a little more about it, I’d love to hear of it. Please pass it around to other family members if you can.

These past few weeks have been a bit crazy as we’ve rushed to get the storage area that belonged to my father emptied. I have no idea what is in most of those boxes in the Treasure Room. In just the past few days I have seen the will of my great grandparents, Grandpa’s college transcripts, a few surprise images like the one above, and a lot of things made by my Mom that I haven’t seen in years.

My children had not had any kind of connection to this stuff. These busy weekend dealing with the dirt and the loading and unloading have been a chore to them.

But they have done a service and do not know it. These are treasures they will later discover and appreciate when they have children of their own.

My daughter in law came by tonight for a little while to help out. She told me a great story of my 4-year old grandson, Damon.

Damon recently asked his Mommy about his two grandma’s — one with the light hair and one with the dark hair. When Mommy explained that the light haired Grandma was her Mommy Damon was shocked. What ensued was a delightful conversation of discovery. Damon learned that Mommy was once a baby and she had no brothers. Damon couldn’t believe this. But further shocking to him was that his aunts — his very favorite people in all the world — are siblings to his Mommy and his Daddy.

I’m convinced we go through phases of discovery with our own family. For Damon, the family connections are just starting to come together. At other times, we learn of such things when we are much older.

This is the work and the mission of my Treasure Room. That discovery will continue for me through it’s contents.

My Daughter’s Eyes

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A few weeks ago a young co-worker took a day off while his wife delivered their first child. Hearing this was going to happen I congratulated him and told him, “The world changes for you on that day.” He said, “What do you mean?” and I just told him, “Wait, you’ll see.”

When he returned with news that all was well, passing around pictures of a robust and healthy little boy, I enquired after his wife and asked how he was feeling. He smiled and said, “You were right – the world is a new place.”

I felt that way with every child my wife delivered. It was always exciting and nearly breathtaking in how abrupt it was – one era ended in an instant and a new one began.

To fully understand what that feels like you just have to experience it. It is one of things that maybe you can wonder about and perhaps others will tell you. But until your moccasins walk down that path you really have no idea.

I realized over this past weekend that my children are in a state where they really have no idea when it comes to their family heritage.

That’s not an accusation, that’s not something I levy to garner guilt or shame. It’s just the way it is.

We took another long weekend trek to Dad’s famed storage unit where 55 years of accumulation still exists and that we’re slowly working. Dad just can’t afford to house all this stuff (it’s not all his either) and decisions have to be made to deal with it all.

For days Dad worked with various family members to sort things into piles. There was a pile of Christmas stuff to be sold at a yard sale, a pile of things belonging to each child, a pile of things to be donated and a pile of stuff to be preserved.

The work generated a few fun moments. We learned quickly that what a box was labeled didn’t mean that’s what was inside – or that it was what we thought it was.

My daughter Madelyn came across a curious carton labeled “Redneck Pillow”. She laughed and wondered aloud who would own such a thing. Almost instantly, I surmised the box belonged to my little sister Kris, as she was the closest thing we had to a redneck in the family.

This made everyone laugh.

Madelyn tore open the box saying, “Well I’ve got to see what a redneck pillow looks like.” As soon as the flaps were opened she burst out laughing and pulled it out of the box, holding it high in the air.

“It’s not a redneck pillow, it’s a red NECK pillow!”.

After everyone had their laugh at that one of my kids asked, “Dad, why is Aunt Kris the redneck of the family?”

It was a fair question and I found some pictures of Kris during a phase when she was big into country music, wore hats and boots and all. They took some pleasure in seeing their much younger aunt in a new light but I was quite surprised they didn’t know this about her.

My kids are pretty fond of Kris so this was somewhat of a magical moment of discovery. The “cool aunt” just became a bit more cool, even though there isn’t a one of my children who are fans of country music. They have just always loved Kris’ take-no-prisoners love of life in pursuing the things she likes.

But in a way the moment encapsulated what is so awesome about family history.

We just don’t know what we don’t know.

All through out the weekend of working on this storage unit we found bits and pieces of family past. There were things in there that none of us knew were there.

For example, my Dad found an old metal file box which contained another box. The inner container housed mementos my Grandfather had saved of his parents. It contained their wills and a few personal items which now have to be well over a century old. Neither of us knew how they ended up in the pile of stuff.

But more importantly, my Dad was the only one who had a memory of these two people. I know of them from my family history research and many conversations with those who grew up with them. But my children have no connection to these great grandparents. The file box and what was in it did nothing to hold their interest.

In such “things” it is hard for anyone to find much connection.

In contrast, my children and those of my siblings that were there were anxious to find things connected to my mother. They knew my Mom and having lost her just two years ago they are missing her more than I think they anticipated.

We found several large cartons of crochet afghans my mother made. With each discovery voices were heard saying, “I want one!” or something similar. They knew there are few precious things left that came from my mother’s hands. There is no way I’m going to allow those things to be donated or tossed – we’ll clean them up and give them out again as gifts – from my mother.

Seeing this disparity in their appreciation for family past was a little distressing for me. But after giving myself some time to think I’ve come to realize that time is all they need to grow in their appreciation for all their family.

The eyes of youth are clouded by hopeful futures that they see on an endless horizon. Only time and wisdom and experience can give them the connective longing for their family past. My children are no different than I was at their age.

What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and listen a little better to my parents and grandparents. What I wouldn’t give to gather more of their precious memories and to document better the things they were telling me.

But I wasn’t seeing the world then through their eyes. I was seeing the world through my eyes where my future seemingly had so little to do with their past.

I know differently now.

Last week my sister-in-law shared the picture you see below. On the left is Beatrice Frances Baker, my wife’s great grandmother. She was affectionately known as Grandma Trix.

This picture reminded my sister in law of my daughter, Allie. And instantly I saw it too.

Hopefully you can see it. Hopefully the rest of my children can see it.

Grandma Trix is a beloved character among the Gillens and Malones, my wife’s family. I have heard nothing but magic and love about Grandma Trix.

But I do not yet know her history.

But seeing her in my daughter’s eyes draws me to her instantly. She is, in the end, family.

Beloved. Precious. Part of us.

In a way, this picture solves a little mystery I have had within me since the day my daughter Allie was born.

I’ve told the story many times but I’ve never really done much to explain my feelings on that incredible day. That birthing experience was something of a nightmare for my dear wife but for me it was a day filled with amazing discovery, love and revelation.

Allie was born with her eyes wide open – and she hardly made a noise.

In fact, though a little stranger to me in those first few moments of her life I saw then for the first time “the look” she gets that is uniquely hers whenever she experiences something new. Her mind was active and the wheels were spinning — and the expression on her face was one of wonder and discovery.

And then there were those big, beautiful brown eyes.

They say you can’t tell a baby’s eye color at the moment of birth. And generally I would agree because most of my children were born with grey colored eyes that eventually changed to blue or green.

Allie’s eyes were dark and they were huge.

I knew almost right away her eyes would be brown like her mother’s. It was a thrill to me, simple as this sounds, to have a brown eyed child.

But what struck me, especially in those first several hours of her life, was how those eyes spoke and expressed her feelings. Allie has the type of eyes that just communicate.

I can recall looking at my beautiful new daughter and wondering about those eyes. What came next was a sacred moment of revelation unlike any other I would have concerning my children. In an instant my entire head was filled with light and I was given knowledge about this little spirit.

I knew her and her capabilities at that very moment.

This is nearly 21 years ago now and looking back – through the perfect vision we all possess in looking back – I can see now that what I was given about Allie was perfectly accurate.

She was and remains unique among my children – not greater loved, not better, not more special than any of them. But unique – as different as those brown eyes that separate her from her siblings.

In nearly every way she is unique and different. Some joke that shouldn’t be a surprise because she is a middle child. I won’t go there because I’m a middle child myself and, well, you wouldn’t understand.

But I believe our family past has a big part in explaining what makes each of us unique.

To my daughter – who was named after my beloved Aunt Allie and after my wife – I would challenge you to get to know the Grandma Trix you see in this picture. There is a reason you have her look – and there is likely a good chance the look came from someone else in the distant past.

Do not think for a second that it is merely a coincidental thing that you share “a look”.

For example, this side-by-side picture of my daughter Maggie with a picture of my Grandmother. You’d have to be completely blind not to see the relation.

But I know both Maggie and my Grandma.

I am quite certain that if they had the chance to spend some time together they would delight in each other. I think they would find common ground beyond the things I know about them both. Both are precious to me and I feel they would be precious to each other.

Or how about these images of my Dad and my son.

My son Enoch is built like my Dad and has many of his mannerisms. There is meaning in that. And the similarities go much further.

Just as I would challenge Allie to get to know Grandma Trix and for Maggie to get to know my Grandma Westover I would invite my son to get to know my Dad more and to do it now. Your opportunity at embracing the past is only going to happen by the wiser part of the vision of your youth, son. You may not see the wisdom of it now. So trust me on this. You won’t regret getting close to your granddad while he’s still alive.

To me, that’s what I was feeling in the dusty confines of that storage unit – where the “family history pile”, as we came to call it – was the biggest of them all. There were photos and documents and keepsakes and stuff from all sides of my family.

For me, older now and wiser, I could “feel” their presence as I looked over these earthly things.

Some of it made me sad. I was, frankly, greatly missing my mother this weekend because hers was the biggest presence there, of course.

But I shared an interesting moment with my Dad.

I opened an old enveloped and inside was a stack of family group sheets. He saw them from a distance in my hands and said, “Those must be from my Grandma Westover.”

And I said, “No, Dad. These are from MY Grandma Westover – I think your mother gave you these.”

“How can you tell?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “from the scans that Sam gave us of his Mother’s family group sheets they were all filled out by hand. These are typed. Grandma gave me a set just like this.”

Dad came over and thumbed through the sheets. “I think you’re right,” he said. Then from within the pages of these family group sheets out dropped a letter – in Grandma’s unmistakable hand writing.

In the letter, which was addressed to my father, Grandma talked about what a different year and what a different Christmas it had been for everyone and she thanked my dad for his many kindnesses to her during the course of that year.

“I think this was her last Christmas,” Dad said as he read the letter.

As he read the words that Grandma wrote about the family group sheets – “I want you to have these”, she said – I could feel so much of what my father was feeling just then.

He was missing his mom, too.

But as he carefully folded the letter back up and put it back into the envelope I thought what a wise woman my Grandma was.

Dad knew the names on those group sheets without looking at them. They were precious to him long before his mother ever gave him that for her last Christmas. They were precious to her, too.

But the real love was expressed, mother to son, in the words “I want you to have these”.

Not all of our family past can leave us something so personal.

Perhaps this why the Lord, in his wisdom, allows us to look like them, to carry on their names, and to be similar in habit and manner.

If I could tell my children anything right now it would be for them to look to their family past.

You can find answers there. You can find inspiration there.

I tell you they know you in your youth better than you know yourself. And as you explore who you are and come to terms with where you are headed and why you are here you would be wise to realize they are right here with you.

They know you and they love you.

You would be wise to know and love them too.

Family By the Numbers

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An online friend asked me the other day where I have gone. He noticed that my activity on social media was much less than what it has been in the past. “All you talk about are your kids or family history”, he said.

These days I take that as a high compliment.

Among the many things I hope to accomplish this year was less time invested in things that just are not important. Social media and complaining about politics, careers, and daily living are a distraction from things that are more important.

But the pendulum can swing both ways. Sometimes we can become so absorbed with an objective that we miss other good things going on around us.

And that is why I hesitate to bring up this next topic – a number assigned to our family history.

I made it very public at the first of the year that I hoped to complete 1000 family ordinances in 2017. On the right hand margin of this page is a very visible numerical accounting of how we’re doing with that goal.

In a way my mission experience taught me the dangers of numbers. I learned that if you assign numbers to things they do motivate people. The problem is knowing what the numbers motivate people to do. At the end of the day, there is usually only one number that matters. And we usually fell short of that one number while shattering the values of lesser important numbers.

My goal number of 1000 family temple ordinances in 2017 really has little significance. Of the billions of people in world history who need temple ordinances done it is a drop in the bucket. Even out of the numbers of people through time I can call family it barely scratches the surface.

But I put the number up there to motivate me. I don’t want to lose focus of what we’re really trying to do with our family history. It is all about the temple and getting as many of our family there as we possibly can.

While what we did last year was good I figure we can do much better. It is going to come from constantly moving forward toward a goal – and by making more time for it by making less time for things that just are not important.

Of course, it would be helpful to have others engaged in the goal. It always is.

Thankfully, I do have many who are assisting the in the work. Most of them are neighbors and ward members. I am grateful I have a nearby temple where I can take the names we have ready.

But I know that if we had some help of focused family members our results would improve dramatically.

I want all our family members to take some ownership of that number. Feel free to add your names from your own family history research efforts to the tally here. Likewise, feel free to use the website to help publicize when and how you need help.

I remain frustrated with many in my family who won’t engage with me in this work. I don’t know if it is just me or just that they want to remain solitary in their efforts.

But I can only imagine how frustrated our family on the other side might be because of how little we’re doing and how unorganized that we are.
We can do better. And I dare say we MUST do better.

The Spirit of Elijah is knowing the urgency of this work.

““Think of the Savior when you meet Him. . . . He has trusted you by letting you hear the gospel in your lifetime, giving you the chance to accept the obligation to offer it to those of your ancestors who did not have your priceless opportunity. Think of the gratitude He has for those who pay the price in work and faith to find the names of their ancestors and who love them and Him enough to offer them eternal life in families, the greatest of all the gifts of God. He offered them an infinite sacrifice. He will love and appreciate those who paid whatever price they could to allow their ancestors to choose His offer of eternal life.” – President Henry B. Eyring