My Daughter’s Eyes

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

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

A Tale of the Old West and Bad Family History

Tonight I went fishin’ for a while. I don’t get nearly enough opportunity to do that –“fishin’” as it relates to family history.

Here’s how it works: I go to FamilySearch or Ancestry and enter very broad search terms – say, a surname like “Smith”.

Then I sort out all the results to drill down to just what I want to see. Sometimes it is birth certificates, sometimes it is census records, sometimes it is just something else.

Tonight it was photos.

I went to Ancestry and trolled for all photos I could find associated with “Westover”. I got that beauty of an image above from this little fishing expedition.

Those boys are brothers by the name of Canfield.

I had seen that name somewhere before so I had to click on it and figure out the connection.

I got the connection alright – but the side story was a much better find – a true tale of the old West.

What made it even better was the alleged mystery of a 120-year old event spilled over on the pages Ancestry as descendants of the men involved continued to debate the tale of cattle rustling, old west gangs, suicide and murder.

Interested? Read on.

First, the family connection: the man in the bottom left of that picture is Moroni Canfield.

This picture of Moroni and his brothers was taken in about 1890 – about three years before Moroni died – or was murdered or committed suicide, depending on whose history you believe.

Moroni married Sarah Evaline Westover, eldest daughter of our Edwin R. Westover and his wife, Sarah Jane Burwell.

Moroni and Sarah met around 1870, when Edwin was living in Hamblin. Both were about 20 when they married.

Edwin has no real part to play in this story. After Moroni and Sarah were married they left Hamblin for several years and returned in 1877, where Edwin traded his property there to Moroni for a team, harness and wagon for Edwin to use on his mission to Arizona.

Moroni and Sarah would have a family of 8 children and his life until the 1890s mirrors that of so many in Southern Utah from that time. They struggled financially and fought the elements in their attempts to build Zion.

With a name like Moroni you have to know there is a strong Mormon connection, too.

Moroni’s father joined the Church, went to Nauvoo and later to Winter Quarters where they came west when Moroni was just a boy. He was thoroughly invested in the Church.

A story is told of how Moroni once came upon two US Marshals who were in Utah hunting down polygamists.

Moroni asked these two men why they were there and the marshals shared they were on their way to Enterprise to arrest Thomas Sirls Terry, a leading figure in that community and a known polygamist.

Moroni was able to give the marshals the slip and get to the Terry farm to tip off the family, who got “Ol Man Terry”, as the marshals called him, out of town just in time.

That story is told in contrast to the real criminal activity that the ranchers of southern Utah had to deal with in horse and cattle thieves.

The Canfields lived not far from a place called Desert Spring, which happened to be a crossroads of sorts between Beaver, Utah, Pioche, Nevada and Utah settlements to the north and mining camps to the south. Desert Spring was also the base of operations for a man named Ben Tasker, a genuine old west outlaw.

Tasker was known for his gang of outlaws who would first provide aid to travelers passing through Desert Spring and follow them for short distances only to rob them in the middle of nowhere.

Their primary source of income came in the way of cattle and horses – and Tasker’s gang stole them by the hundreds, changing brands or butchering them to be sold in the mining camps.

There are legendary tales – some untrue, I’m sure – of just what a tough customer Tasker was.

One story talks of him shooting a man and then using his body as a table while Tasker played cards.

The Canfield brothers knew too well how lawless the times were and they had a personal connection to Tasker.

Their sister, Lucy Philena, was married to a man named Thomas Emmet.

Lucy Philena’s history talks a bit about the woes in her marriage. Though she and Thomas were married in the Endowment House in Salt Lake City when they returned to Southern Utah and started their family it seemed that Thomas wasn’t around much. The history says he traveled a great deal “on business”.

Thomas Emmet

His business was “his dealings in cattle and horses”.

The Moroni Canfield history on Ancestry is a bit more descriptive of Thomas’ activities.

According to their version of things Thomas rode with Ben Tasker’s Gang and neglected his wife and small children for long periods of time.

The Canfield family did all they could to help Lucy Philena but they grew weary of Thomas’ antics and were constantly rescuing him from the trouble he would get into.

On the night of June 28, 1893, Moroni and a few others were herding about 1500 head of cattle when something happened.

In the morning, Moroni was found dead – shot in the head.

From Moroni’s history on Ancestry we read of why some descendants of Canfield felt Thomas Emmet and Tasker’s gang had something to do with Moroni’s untimely death:

“Emett was a pretty rough character. He and a friend Bob Tait ran and dealt with the Ben Tasker Gang. Ben Tasker was a horse and cattle thief operating all over the territory. He had his headquarters at Desert Springs, at the junction of roads from Beaver, Iron Springs, Mountain Meadows and the Nevada mining camps.

Ben Tasker had been arrested numerous times, but always found some way to get away. He and his men would take what they wanted and kill anyone who stood in their way.

The Canfield brothers because of their sister had been trying to keep Emett out of trouble and talk some sense into the pair. Nothing worked. They grew tried of seeing Philena and her little ones hungry and without proper care. She had lost a number of babies by miscarriages. They were sick to death of pulling him out of a hole and trying to feed and clothe this little family.

So, they decided to catch Emett in the act. Well they caught him and Bob Tait both in the act. Stealing Cattle.

They had come prepared so they pulled their guns on him and Tait and told Emett they were sick and tired of getting him out of his messes. That the law was on to them and was out to get them.

Now, Grandfather said, I told him “I do not want to see your face any more in Utah or close about. You head for Texas as fast as you can. It will be less costly for us to take care of your family than to bother with the likes of you. If we ever see you around in Utah again I personally will shoot you.”

[Insert spookly old west whistling music here]

Thomas Emett evidently didn’t need to hear any more.

He lit out of Utah heading south and that was the last the Canfield’s heard from him – until Moroni ended up with a bullet in his skull.

To quote again from the history on Ancestry, “Moroni and the Canfield herd would have been in the right place and the right time to be easy pickings for Thomas Emett or one of his associates. Revenge is as good a motive for murder as money, and Emett had both.”

The surviving family of Thomas Emmet doesn’t care for that version Canfield family history. They have a very different point of view.

Another family historian on Ancestry – a descendant of Thomas Emett – was able to prove that not only was Thomas hundreds of miles away in Arizona at the time of Moroni’s death but he was also, fortunately, dead, too.

Thomas had died 10 years before – in Phoenix, evidently of smallpox.

Yes, thanks to the modern sleuthing of family historians, they cleared the name of Thomas Emmet from the charge of murder.

That doesn’t mean the controversy had diminished. His memorial on FindAGrave.com, after several contrary comments, now notes:

“There are many unsubstantiated rumors that still persist even after 125 years. I have letters, life stories, and 1st hand accounts of what happened to Thomas. My great grandfather, Don Thomas Emett, his son, told others to ignore what people say, we know what is true. We are told by the authorities to not gossip. It is sad 125 years later people can’t wait to tell me how bad my great-great grandfather was.”

Thomas’ family had long compiled proof of his innocence, most notably the receipt of his spurs and his saddle, which were shipped to them after he died.

Even still, it wasn’t hard to make the connection to Tasker or to Emmet.

Tasker at the time of Moroni’s death was in jail in Beaver, Utah. His reputation as a frequent escaper from jails was legendary because his roaming gang would often overwhelm lone guards or sheriff personnel.

Tasker’s men were in the area – and revenge was not their only motivation in what Moroni was up to.

Moroni, you see, was then under contract to move and sell and very large herd of cattle – right through the heart of west central Utah where Tasker did his most notorious work.

Perhaps that was a reason why Moroni took the job – one that would change fortunes for him and two of his friends.

That transaction was nearly complete, all Moroni needed to do was to finish the move, a task that took him near Beaver and a task that proved to be much more difficult than he anticipated.

Moroni had a pocketful of money but what he had collected to move the cattle was dwindling fast and he would find himself in a negative cash position if he didn’t deliver soon and deliver as many cattle as possible.

A news report of Moroni’s death explained his fate was sealed by the weather, a lack of manpower, sleep and the realization that Moroni had lost big on his deal.

Moroni Canfield, they reported, killed himself after a midnight thunderstorm scattered his herd and he felt all was lost.

For decades the descendants of the Canfields and the Emmets held to their respective stories about the demise of Moroni Canfield.

But the ultimate vindication of Thomas Emmet came from an unusual source – Moroni’s mother, Elizabeth Canfield.

In 2013, a family member posted to FamilySearch a letter that Elizabeth Canfield wrote in July 1893. She told a vivid tale of horror at learning the real story of Moroni’s demise.

She described how Moroni had “been in the saddle” for three days without sleep, trying to keep the cattle together all while wrestling with a fast coming financial disaster. The longer it took him and the more cattle he lost the deeper the hole he was in.

The combination of financial stress and physical exhaustion led Moroni to one very sad conclusion.

Elizabeth writes:

“The night before he did this his reason left him. Pratt [his brother] could do nothing with him. He tried to get him to go to bed, put his arm around him and tried to get him to lie down and that was the night he was to get to water. He would not do it and about 10 o’clock the cattle got the scent of water- 1,511 head of them. As soon as they smelt the water, they went wild. The boys rushed after them but could only find 300 head…”

“F. Rice was the only man with a pistol. He took it off and laid it down by his bed instead of putting it under his head. Of course Roni would not sleep and got up. Told a boy to go round the wagon and get his horse. As soon as his (the boys) back was turned, he picked up the thing, put the muzzle in his mouth and fired…”

“…After he was buried, I was looking over his clothes and found a little scrap of paper in his overalls pocket. He told the boys that all was lost. The cattle gone. But if he had only waited till day light he could have seen the stock or the most of them at a distance.

On the paper he said ”I Moroni Canfield have staked all and lost. I have ruined myself and friends. Their names are E.V. Hardy and L. C. Maneger (Marriager?). I have lost all am not fit for a felons cell. Good bye. May Father in Heaven have Mercy”.

Of course, life went on for everyone else.

Moroni’s mother lived until 1908 and is buried in Hamblin. She is remembered for her faithfulness.

Lucy, Thomas’ widow, remarried a man named John Day in Hamblin and they had three children, including a set of twins.

Sarah Westover Canfield Bowler with her 2nd husband, James Bowler.

Moroni’s widow Sarah remarried nearly a decade later and lived until 1927.

There are many lessons to learn from these tragic events.

For the family of Thomas Emmet, there has to be some joy in his vindication. He may have been a lot of things but he clearly didn’t murder Moroni Canfield.

Not all of our relatives have great things to be said of them. Even still, why would we settle for anything less than the truth?

For those of Moroni Canfield’s family – especially those who laid the blame for his death on Thomas Emmet – what do you have to say for yourselves?

Surely it is hard to be unsympathetic to poor Moroni. He had troubles, clearly.

But as I sat thinking of all this I couldn’t help but wonder about the story of Ben Tasker.

Certainly he has descendants and his history is somewhere, no?

Well…no. At least not that I have found yet.

A Google search seems to return a lot of links back to FamilySearch about this guy. They turn out to be histories of other people – many of them victims of Tasker and his gang.

They were the cattle rustlers of the Old West in Utah, no doubt about it.

I found Ben Tasker living in Beaver in the 1880 census. He’s listed as divorced and living alone. He was 61 years old.

But there’s not much else written about him that I’ve found yet.

For whatever reason I want to know how and when he died. Did he go out in a blaze of bullets? Did he jump off a cliff in Bolivia? Or did he die of old age?

That’s a history hunt for another day.

Knowing Brigham

I was 17 when I graduated from high school and I had to wait until I was 19 to serve a mission. That gave me a full year to pursue some college.

I vividly recall a freshman history class where a professor during a lecture about the American Indian gave a passing opinion of Brigham Young, calling him “a monster”.

I was shocked.

I had a Sunday School version of Brigham in my mind. I knew him as a prophet.

To hear him called a monster in the context of history stirred me to find out more. I began my own casual study of Brigham Young that year to figure out how he could be considered by anyone to be a monster.

The lesson I learned is that history can be bent to fit just about anyone’s politics.

And I learned the only history you can trust is the history you process on your own.

The same is true of family history.

Brigham Young was a man both reviled and revered – because he had a position that was prominent among thousands of people and because so many recorded what he said and did.

Those who knew him, those who lived near him and those who interacted with him far outweigh his distant critics.

I remain most fascinated by the Brigham Young of the 1840s.

He led the great missionary work of the Church in Great Britain and then came home to defend Joseph – and then led when Joseph was killed.

Brigham was many things but during this decade of his life his accomplishments were staggering.

Historians give Brigham his due for this time frame but I contend the Brigham Young most of the world dwells on is the Brigham who spent the last 30 years of his life in Utah.

And they judge him on things like polygamy alone. In so doing they miss one of the greatest of American stories.

He was outspoken, opinionated, direct and at times seemingly Teflon-coated when it came to his critics.

Brigham was deliciously flawed, ingeniously productive, forever provocative and endlessly fascinating.

He was complex. He was less than perfect – and he knew it.

He was a man, I think, that had I lived in his time I would have followed and admired – just as did many of my family.

Over the years I have read just about everything I can about Brigham.

But I haven’t studied him much in these past five years – a period when my own family history has been central to all my studies.

What I have discovered recently is the colliding of those two worlds – Brigham’s history and our family history.

I find they enrich each other in wonderfully detailed ways.

Truth be told, I think we tend to glorify – or dismiss — the larger figures in history through hero worship or by whitewashing their flaws through hyperinflation of their accomplishments.

Movies are especially guilty of this.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a film production that portrays Brigham in the way that all the reading about him has developed his character in my mind.

Family history has further tempered that.

Charles Westover, my 4th great uncle and brother to Edwin, once had Brigham stay overnight in his home when he lived with his family in Silver Reef.

Of utmost concern to Charles and his wife Eliza was the validity of their temple sealing.

Charles came west in 1848 with Brigham’s 2nd company, one of 1200 souls who made that trek. On that trek was his mother, Electa, and both brothers Edwin and Oscar. There were other extended family members who also were part of the company.

Charles at that point was unmarried, only 20 years old and he had just joined the Church when he was baptized at Winter Quarters.

Reading Brigham’s history during the years of 1847 and 1848 is fascinating in context of the story of the Westovers at Winter Quarters.

Brigham returned to Winter Quarters with a very clear picture in his mind about the future of the Church. It was there that Brigham re-organized the First Presidency and it was there that Brigham really became the leader – the prophet — of the Church.

So many of our family members were there to witness these proceedings.

Unfortunately, they left no records of their take on those events. They were caught up, as most were, in preparing to leave the next spring for Salt Lake City.

Charles was pressed into service as a teamster by Erastus Snow. This relationship that began at Winter Quarters would last a lifetime. For many years the paths of the Westover family would cross often with Apostle Erastus Snow.

Also part of that massive company was young Eliza Ann Haven, young daughter of John Haven, himself a minor figure in Church history.

The Havens lived for a time in Nauvoo. Eliza was a child during these years.

She recalled in later years the time she spent in Nauvoo. She had vivid memories of Joseph Smith, having had meals with him and seeing him preach.

When she was 12 Eliza Ann was baptized by Brigham Young in the Mississippi river.

Eliza Ann was later among one of the last to receive her temple endowments in the Nauvoo temple.

Eliza, along with her sister, was present at the great Church meeting held in August 1844 when the body of the Church was forced to choose between Sidney Rigdon and Brigham Young to lead the Church.

Eliza left a stirring testimony that she witnessed the image, voice and likeness of Joseph Smith during that meeting in the person of Brigham Young.

I get a bit perturbed when I read critics who dismiss this event.

They note that not one journal of the event from the time that it occurred has ever been found. Not even the exacting detail of Wilford Woodruff’s journals mentions the miracle at the time it happened. All known recorded versions of the event were made years, and in the case of Eliza, decades after it happened.

But Eliza’s version of events was written in her own hand. She conveyed her memory of the event to her son in a letter in 1916 in her own words.

“When he spoke it was the Brother Joseph’s voice. I gave a jump off my seat and said, “Our Prophet Joseph has come to life. We have our President back”. I looked up and there stood Brother Joseph just as plain as I ever saw him when alive. For a minute, I heard Brother Joseph’s voice and saw his features; then a mist seemed to pass from Brother Brigham’s face and go up. Then there stood Brother Brigham talking to us. Hundreds saw the same thing that I did, but not all that were present.”

Did this really happen?

In my mind it matters little. What matters is that Eliza said it happened. She made a record of it and we have her words reliably.

There are those out there who try to take the personal history of ancestors like Eliza and turn them into people they were not.

In my online travels researching Eliza Haven Westover I came across a blog post by a woman claiming to be a great, great, great, great granddaughter.

She used images of Eliza Ann and Charles in her post as well as quotes from some well-known history of the couple.

But woven into the narrative was a story about Eliza Ann I had never heard before.

According to this blog post – and nothing else I have ever read elsewhere before about her – Eliza Ann was allegedly approached by Brigham Young to become one of his plural wives.

This allegedly happened before she met Charles Westover and gleefully the writer of the post claimed “Grandma Westover told this story”, stating that Eliza Ann evidently rebuffed Brigham, saying she wanted her own man.

The writer than claimed to possess the same “in-your-face” characteristics of her Grandma Westover and it was these characteristics that allowed her to defy current prophets who exclude gays from Mormonism.

I believe this story to be false – and a distortion to the memory of Eliza Ann Westover.

There’s no way Brigham could have or would have proposed marriage to Eliza Ann Haven prior to 1848, if ever.

First of all, plural marriage previous to 1848 didn’t happen in this fashion. Older men in the church practicing plural marriage didn’t just willy-nilly hit up young girls.

The Church was not even public with the practice until 1852 and few members of the Church even knew about it.

It was a pretty confidential act at that time and it surely would have involved other key individuals, both in the leadership of the Church and in the families of all parties involved.

But more importantly is the fact the Eliza Ann and Charles Westover were strong members of the Church who kept clear records. I doubt there was an encounter with any Church leader that they didn’t record or share.

Of the many, many known remaining records they left behind there is not one mention of this kind of exchange between Eliza Ann and Brigham Young.

In other words the writer of the blog post, one who claimed to be one of Eliza’s direct descendants – lied.

Whether you’re a college professor or a direct descendant decades later making claims you better be able to back them up.

But that’s not how the dishonest world works and it is exactly this kind of information that makes monsters of people when they are not.

Eliza Ann and Charles first met on the trail – and later they became known as the first couple to be married in Utah in 1849. (I doubt that’s true too. The media of the day reported it that way).

Like many others they were married in Salt Lake but long before there was a temple there. They were sealed, at the hand of Brigham Young, in the home of Erastus Snow.

Years later, as Brigham was planning to spend a night in their home while he was on his way to St. George, Charles and Eliza debated whether to ask him about the need to go to one of the newly constructed temples to have their sealing renewed.

They anxiously looked to each other until the very moment that Brigham was sitting at their table and finally, discerning their anxiety, Brigham asked them what it was they wanted to ask and Charles blurted it out.

Brigham chuckled, waved his hand and over a bite of pot roast said their marriage was more about the priesthood than a temple.

The answer was yes, their temple sealing was perfectly valid and, no, they didn’t need to renew anything in the temple.

These associations with names known now in history were quite familiar at the time for the Westover family.

When Charles took on a plural wife in 1856, he married Mary Shumway – a close friend of his wife, Eliza Ann – in Brigham Young’s office, with Brigham conducting the ceremony.

Years later, it was Brigham who called Charles and Edwin to go to St. George.

The world just wasn’t so large then.

In fact, if you consider just the 1200 people who crossed in Brigham’s 1848 company you can equate that number of people to about three contemporary LDS wards.

Add to those the several hundred that had come to Utah in 1847 you still have less than 3000 people in Utah those first few years – smaller than most stakes today.

Of course they knew each other.

Of course there was interaction. It was a very, very small world.

While reading of the early conversion story of Brigham Young in 1832 I came across the name of Eleazar Miller – a name I had seen somewhere before.

Miller baptized Brigham and was one of the missionaries who taught him.

After some thought, I finally remembered where I had heard that name before.

Miller was the man Electa Westover was sealed to in 1856 during the period of the Mormon Reformation.

She never lived with him and if you look up Eleazar Miller on Family Search you will see that he had many plural wives – and that Electa is not counted as one of them.

I don’t know why that is.

I don’t know what Electa thought of plural marriage.

I do know she was faithful and obedient.

When called to be sealed to other men, Electa did it. When the Saints were encouraged to be re-baptized to show their commitment to the faith, Electa did it. In all things it appears she was true and faithful.

But she never left her sons. And they never abandoned her.

Upon arriving in Salt Lake, as head of the house, Electa was given a lot in Salt Lake and Edwin and Charles set to build her a home before they built their own.

When after four or five years they moved to Cottonwood to farm on larger lots Electa moved with them.

When Edwin and Charles were in Cottonwood they both took on plural wives. Edwin married Ann Findley and Charles married Mary Shumway.

Of course, the world has made much of the 19th century Mormon practice of plural marriage. Everyone, it seems, has an opinion about it.

For some it remains – along with other Mormon practices – something of a stumbling block.

Some try to rationalize it as just their way of life or they assume it was something that just came easy because they were pressured by Brigham Young or others to live that way.

We know from well documented evidence that plural marriage did not work out for many people.

Brigham, in fact, had several failed marriages. Albert Smith, another relative who lived in Manti, also endured a divorce after one wife just could never be satisfied.

But for the Westovers practicing plural marriage it did work out. There were moments, the record shows, where there were difficulties for Charles between his two wives. But the record is likewise clear that Eliza and Mary Shumway remained close for the rest of their lives.

Edwin and his wives – Sarah Jane and Ann – co-existed for over a decade living in the most desperate of circumstances in Southern Utah. When Ann took her children and moved to Mendon it wasn’t to escape the plural marriage arrangement. It was to help family.

As I’ve contemplated plural marriage over the years I’ve long considered myself blessed for not having to live that way. But my contemplation of such a sacred law is not fair in my time and in my age. We just cannot compare our life now to their situation then.

They didn’t have the Internet. They didn’t have scores of ready resources to read and study and ponder.

The people we call family who lived during these pioneer times left all they had, traveled great distances at considerable risk of their lives, and took upon themselves what they considered sacred acts of obedience on faith.

There are huge lessons in all that and the largest comes in our judgment of them. I wouldn’t be too quick to label anyone a monster or others stupid for doing what they did.

Our time is filled with challenges we have been called to endure. From the distant past our ancestors are watching us live out our mortality and face the challenges that are ours. I wonder if they think they could do what we are doing? I wonder if they stand in harsh judgment of us?

Of course, they live now where faith is not the element it is here. They know there is life after death. They have moved on to their next steps in development.

They know things we know not.

But let us remember as well that while we admire them for what made them so faithful they were, in most respects, just as we are.

Reading the journal of Albert Smith I came across this passage from 1883:

“… As I was meditating on the principle of baptism for the dead it comes as though I was surrounded with the spirit of my forefathers opening the principle to my mind, giving me to understand that they were looking to me and my children to attend to those ordinances for them that they cannot attend themselves.

Not only did they open the principle to my mind, but they showed me the necessity of my teaching my children faithfulness and to live that we might be prepared when the temple is finished to go there as well as their brethren and sisters and attend to those ordinances for which the temple is built.

Suffice it to say that I did not sleep all night. It seemed as though they were with me until daylight opening my mind to many things…”

Can you see the connection? Can you see how the chain of family serves, both in this life and in the life to come?

Brigham Young lived to see the St. George Temple dedicated. He said, “What do you suppose the fathers would say if they could speak from the dead? Would they not say, “We have lain here thousands of years, here in this prison house, waiting for this dispensation to come?” … What would they whisper in our ears? Why, if they had the power the very thunders of heaven would be in our ears, if we could realize the importance of the work we are engaged in.”

Charles was there. Eliza was there. Edwin was there. Electa was there.

After all, they knew Brigham.

And they shared with Brigham a vision for their future family…and of their past family.

This is NOT Alexander Westover

Certain dates tend to stick in the minds of most avid family historians. 1890, of course, is notorious.

That year of the federal census was mostly lost to history due to a fire in 1921 that wiped out most of the records. Nearly every family has a missing piece of information tied to that census – and that causes challenges in solving family mysteries.

Years of war – 1860-1865, 1914-1918, 1940-1945 – these are worldwide event windows that have profound effects on family history.

For me one date in history is a very definite line in the sand: 1838.

1838 is the year when the first photograph of a human being was first recorded.

That is why I know that at least 18 people on Ancestry.com are dead wrong.

They have posted and shared the image seen on the right as a picture of Alexander Westover.

But that is NOT Alexander Westover.

Alexander Westover died in 1834. The earliest known photographs of people in the United States only date back to about 1839. That can’t be Alexander Westover.

Fortunately, we know who the man is.

It’s Levi Murdock – and yes, he’s family.

He is Ruth Althea Rowe’s grandfather (her mother’s father).

Levi is actually older than Alexander – by about nine years. But he lived much longer, passing away in 1879. If I had to guess, I would say this picture dates from the 1850s at the earliest.

Levi joined the church in 1840 and traveled with his family west from Indiana in the 1850s. He settled in Ogden and had a successful farm there until he passed at nearly 90 years of age.

We don’t know who first confused the picture of Levi for Alexander – but the Internet has perpetuated the inaccuracy.

This little incident proves everything that is wrong with Ancestry. 1 person posted this image in error and several others re-posted it as fact. I contacted a few of those who had posted the image and told them as gently as I could who the picture really represented.

A few got upset with me — despite my best efforts to tell them why it couldn’t be Alexander.

Genealogists live by a strict code: it you can’t prove it, it’s not true.

That is really hard to do with photographs.

Most think that rule applies to names and dates. But it should apply to photographs, too.

In this case, all one has to do is the math. Alexander died before the age of photography. I would love to have an actual picture of Alexander Westover. But it is not possible.

I would love to have a picture of his grave, too. On Family Search right now, someone has posted a picture of Alexander’s grave on Alexander’s memories page.

But, sadly – like the mistaken image of Levi Murdock, I fear the posted picture is false.

You see, there is no record of a grave site for Alexander.

We know when and where he died. We even know with official government documentation of the time when he and Electa were married. But we have no documentation on his death and burial.

I am guessing that is because Alexander was likely buried on the farm he was working. They were pioneers – there just wasn’t a town cemetery back in 1834 in Goshen, Ohio – at least not one we have found.

So Alexander remains somewhat of a mystery in terms of what he looked like and where he is laid to rest. I am hoping that some modern day sleuthing can resolve some of this because Alexander is a key part to the Westover family story of the 19th century.

But so too is Levi Murdock. And look at that handsome mug of his – who can’t look at him and not see family?

A lot of people ask me why these old time photos aren’t more happy.

We have to remember that taking a picture then was quite a production. Albert Smith, in his journal, talked about traveling to Salt Like to get his “likeness” done, which is what they called the imaging process of people back then.

Albert bought a new suit for the event.

Likely, Levi did the same. Look at how sharp he is. But why isn’t he smiling?

Probably because he had to stand absolutely still for over a minute while the exposure was made.

Lost in our review of these old pictures is the reason they were doing it. These pioneer families and individuals took these images precisely because they knew we’d be looking at them today.

It was important to them.

Contemplate that.