Our Trek

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I noticed on Facebook that members of the Stake we used to live in are once again headed to Wyoming for Trek.

Trek is a re-enactment of the Mormon Pioneer trail. For a period of three to five days large groups of mostly youth and the adult leaders head to Martin’s Cove, Wyoming to camp and walk the trail.

The place is sacred to Latter-day Saints. It was at Martin’s Cove where the Martin Handcart Company spent their critical hours.

I have to admit that I felt a bit envious of those I see this week dressed in pioneer clothing heading out for the trail.
And that is an astonishing statement only because I really had a miserable time.

Our first day of Trek began long before sunlight as we dressed and packed our allotted 17 pounds of gear. We met at the Church for a devotional, where prayers were said and blessings were given. I recall how serious our good Stake President was as he stood there – the only one in the chapel in a suit – and promised that we would have a spiritual experience.

For me that was a foregone conclusion.

In my calling for Trek I had spent months in preparation for my role. I was to be a storyteller and a witness and I was encouraged to tell the stories of my family if I had them.

For me those months in early 2013 were filled with spirit and revelation.

Understand that these people I was studying were not ancestors in need of my efforts in their behalf in the Temple.

These were people who had gained their own testimonies and had performed ordinance work for themselves.

I hardly knew anything about them or their trek before this experience began.

But I was determined to tell their stories on Trek – no matter what it would take. And it would take a lot — at least for me.

It began with a long bus ride – a long HOT bus ride as the vehicle we were in had no air conditioning. It was so hot that I’m convinced many on the bus were dehydrated before we set foot in Wyoming.

As we got off the bus, they handed us a bottle of water and told us to drink. We held a meeting where we were warned of the dangers of the area – snakes and critters and such.

But worst of all were the elements and unlike the pioneers, who were nowhere near Wyoming in late June, we were prone to sun burn, heat stroke and dehydration. Yes, we were told, people like us who came on Trek actually died because they simply were not hydrated enough.

With those cheery warnings in our ears we began putting our things into the handcarts and we pushed off onto the trail.

It was only a few miles but for this overweight, middle-aged, sedentary man it was a struggle.

My head pounded, I was short on breath, red in the head and everyone kept looking back on me as I fell further and further behind.

We stopped midway to our destination to rehydrate and use the restrooms and more than one concerned individual pulled me aside to ask how I was doing and whether or not I was physically up to the task at hand.

The answer was clearly no. I was not up to it.

But for as awful as I felt and for as worried as I was about what the next few days would be like for me I could not escape the thoughts of my ancestors who had done this for real.

In my studies I learned that we in our generation make far more of the ordeal across the plains than they did.
For many, it was four to six months out of their lives – a mere moment in time for lives that were spent facing so many grueling challenges.

Well, I’m not going to lie.

The next couple of days were completely beyond my physical abilities and I struggled through every step of it.

So why do I look with envy upon those headed out for that experience this week?

It is because Trek was so much more than those three days in the hot sun.

It was months of study and discovery. It was just a few important moments of storytelling and testifying. And it was a sobering period of pondering and reflection as I walked where they walked.

On the final day of our journey we went to Rocky Ridge, a place where the Willie Handcart Company spent a critical night.

For us, in June, there was beauty about the place. There was some green to it, even among all the rocks and boulders.

But for them it had to be awful. When they arrived at this place it was dark and freezing. The snow was ten inches deep.

It is simply a hard, miserable place.

As we walked to the gathering point – a small meadow with logs for benches – we passed a memorial put up by the First Presidency where the simple word REMEMBER stands out.

For me, it was already a special place because I knew the story of Grandma Sophie.

In all the books I read about the Willie Handcart Company I was always able to find the names of Sophie and her children. But never could I find her story. Luckily, I learned it from published accounts on Family Search.

Sophie’s story only grew more compelling after her trek was over but I was certain that within the pages of the journal of Albert Smith I might find some detail of what she endured.

But all he said was that she was a member of the Willie Handcart Company and had “passed through many hardships”.

So while I knew that Grandma Sophie was there and I knew how the rest of her story turned out I really hadn’t learned what a miracle her trek experience really was – until I pondered her situation while at Rocky Ridge.

As we sat in that devotional and sang some of the songs of Zion I never felt the wind there stop or diminish. The sun was beating down on us and it was hot – uncomfortably so.

But in my mind’s eye I could see how cold and harsh of a place Rocky Ridge is – and it has to be a hundred times more miserable in a winter’s storm. If there is an end to earth it is at Rocky Ridge.

There are no flat surfaces in that place – no place to pitch a tent. Obviously there is no food, no water, and none of comforts of natural things like trees or brush. There are no natural shelters and there is no protection from the wind.

As I sat there in this stark place – and tried to remember – I felt a rush of revelation fill my head.

I FELT the presence of Grandma Sophie, even though I had never met her.

It was a burning witness like none I have ever had in my life. And it told me that yes, she had indeed been there and that yes, I was her grandson.

As simple as that sounds it was a powerful, sobering moment for me.

It was a witness not that she was special because she was a pioneer who had survived but rather she was special because she acted on faith. She was there bearing witness to me that her faith was well founded – that for all she had endured it was the right choice, even though she ended up in that harsh place with her life on the line.

Sophie had endured so much. In 1853 she lost her husband, Peder, who was only 37 or so. Together they had brought 8 children into the world and within three years only 4 of them had survived to be with her in the terrible place of Rocky Ridge.

My thoughts there began by wondering what did Sophie think on the night she was in this place?

Did she wonder if she would live through the night? Did she wonder where life in Denmark had gone? Did she think Zion would ever happen for her?

As I thought all these terribly sad thoughts the rush of warmth came over me and I felt her there. And what came to my mind wasn’t the detail of how harsh this place is or how terrible the trial was that Sophie endured or how miserable my weak efforts had been for just a couple of days on Trek.

No, what came to me was that all of that was secondary to just one thing. And that thing was faith.

When they say that we cannot be saved without our dead I believe it is moments like these that make that true.

I believe I was given a witness that night from this beloved ancestor.

And that’s what makes me envious of those folks out on the trail tonight as I write this.

Of course, you don’t have to go on Trek to have these experiences.

But for me Trek introduced these experiences to me on many levels. And I have had other such experiences over the past four years.

It has been life changing for me.

Where I am now is not where I thought I would be four years ago. And where I am going in the years ahead was not even on my radar then.

We have over the course of four years created a lot of family history on our own. One child has married, two grandchildren have come, and now only two of my children remain at home. So very much has changed.

But what has not changed is truth. What has not changed is the nature of faith. What has not changed is our sacred relationship with our family past and with God himself.

I’m on a new Trek now. And in a little bit like Sophie, I’m not sure how this all ends up.

Well — in the long term.

But it makes me wonder if in some distant day I will be someone’s ancestor and I will have the chance to give a witness to a grandchild.

Something tells me yes, I will. It is part of our trek.

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

A Tale of the Old West and Bad Family History

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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.