DAY 63 - MICHAEL EVANS ROE

Last week while I was in Oakland, I took flowers to the Mountain View Cemetery where my brother Mike is buried. It’s a beautiful cemetery, nearly 250-acres of gorgeous rolling hillside, and over 150 years old – the oldest cemetery in Oakland.

   There’s a darling little flower shop on the road that leads to the cemetery, so I stopped. Every March they sell 4-leaf Clover plants, but didn’t have any this time of year, so I bought a pretty little bouquet and went to the cemetery. As I drove through the cemetery I noticed the headstones, new and old – the names, the dates, the tributes. Mike is buried under a tree, on the first row of the Infant Section – along with hundreds of other young children. These little child-size graves only 2-feet wide, and less than 4-feet long.

   Very few of these tiny graves are visited anymore. Most of these Young Ones died over 50 years ago. They never had any descendants, and by now very few of their parents are alive to visit them either.

Mike on one of Grandpa's Shetland Ponies

   I sat down on the grass, my legs tucked under me because the little rows are so close together. It’s been 10 years since I’ve been to Oakland, since I’ve been there – so I brushed the leaves away from the tiny headstone marking the tiny grave. I talked to him. At one point, when I was a teenager, I even wrote my Journal to him. I read the blogpost I wrote about him on his birthday to him. Tears streamed down my face for my brother – this brother I never knew. His life tragically cut too short.

   Today is 64-years since the day his life ended. Since the day a woman got behind the wheel of her car after having too much to drink. She sped through the neighborhood that day, and this little 4-year-old wearing a cowboy hat and shoes a little too big for him – well, I don’t even know if he saw it coming.

   Mom ran to the street. Neighbors gathered to help. One called for an ambulance. A couple of the men tried to administer First Aid. A few of the women held Mom back. Another drove Mom to the hospital as the ambulance drove away. Mike died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

From the Oakland Tribune, Nov 3, 1950
"A cowboy gun and a shoe lie in the curb
where they fell. Police Sgt. Don Heaton
holds the other things which marked
the last "round-up" for Michael Roe, age 4."

   And the Woman Driver – was never charged. It was 1950 – there were no breathalyzers, no blood alcohol tests. She was 51 years old when she killed my brother. There were no legal or financial consequences for her. Dad said she never even apologized – and I could tell from the way he said it that he thought that was the LEAST she should have done.

   But there are consequences in this life – and in the life to come. Decisions we make and lives we impact – we are accountable for our actions. Although this woman didn’t face any consequences in this life, I have no doubt that there are consequences for her on the other side. And she lived the rest of her life knowing that her actions had taken the life of a 4-year-old boy.

DAY 62 - NaNoWriMo – no, that’s not a misspelling

NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. It happens every November, and the challenge is to write 50,000 words in the next 30-days. I decided to participate this year, and since today is November 1st – I am jumping in.

I’ve wanted to do this for the past few years, but there was always some excuse. I was too busy. It was too much to take on. Life just seemed too much “up in the air”. Not that my life is really any calmer this year than any other year, but that the challenge of “1667 words per day” doesn’t seem as daunting as it used to. Most of my blogposts are 500+ words (some even 800 words), and I’ve been able to handle that for the past 62 days.

And blogging for the past 62-days has really done a lot for me. It forces me to get out and do something every day that is Blogworthy – which is especially helpful on those days that I just want to pull the covers up over my head and make the world go away (and, yes, I still have more days like that than I should). Writing every day also makes me stick with it – I mean, once I got through the first 21-days, then the first 30-days… well, to write for all 83-days seems totally do-able. And it has helped me prove to myself that I can write – the quality of my writing is still to be determined, but as one who has always dreamed of being a writer, this blog at least has me writing. And with now over 12,000 hits on this blog so far (see 10,000 Hits), for the first time in my life I am finally brave enough to share what I’m writing – and, gratefully, getting wonderful and positive comments.

In my Den I have a 6-foot-long bookshelf, and one entire shelf contains all of my journals from throughout my life. I’ve been an avid journaler most of my life, and those Journals now not only fill an entire 6-foot expanse but they have started to overflow onto the shelf below also. I rarely leave the house without a Journal in my purse, or some form of pen and paper. [And I always keep pen and paper in my car.] Even sometimes just standing in a line at the bank or somewhere, I will use the email function on my phone to jot down mini-entries – sometimes not more than a simple note about somewhere or someone. But it’s better to have only a single paragraph on a topic than nothing at all.

My father always wanted to write the Great American Novel, and handed his novel off to me to complete. I have pages and pages of notes that he wrote, and— if I can decipher the hieroglyphics he called handwriting — someday I may work on it. Even a few of my cousins have written novels. Four-generations of my family has been into writing in some form or another. Roes are writers (and readers) – I guess it’s just in our blood.

So for the next month I will write an average of 1667 words each day – which will give me 50,000 words by the end of November. According to websites, that’s about 2-hours or so of writing each day. No editing. No proofreading. Just writing and writing and writing — and letting the ideas flow onto the page.

It may never become the Great American Novel, but for me that isn’t the point. I write because I love to write. I does something for me that I can’t get from anything else. It feeds a part of my soul.

And if, by chance, it does turn into the Great American Novel – I’m sure I’ll blog about that too.

DAY 61 - HALLOWEEN

As a Princess, you have to kiss a lot of
Frogs to find your Handsome Prince.

We all know the stories of Halloween – ghosts, goblins, all Hallow’s Eve. But for me Halloween was about having a fun costume and running around the neighborhood with my friends. And growing up in Oakland, California – even 40 years ago – that meant we had to be careful, and there were certain places we just weren’t allowed to go.

   At the end of the evening, usually when our bags were so full we could barely carry them, we would all go back to my house. We’d dump our “stash” on the floor, and Mom & Dad would check it all out – always asking questions about some of the treats. The popcorn ball was always from Rustings. The pack of Wrigleys gum from Ethel. The hard candies that fizzed on the inside from Castinette’s. And Jack’s house always handed out pomegranates – a horrible mess to eat, and so much fun (Mom always hated those things).

One of my earliest Halloweens
with Janae Wright Harker

   Then we would trade. I’ve always hated Butterfingers, and Joey liked them – so he would always get a deal on them. And I’m a big fan of black licorice and Black Jack Gum, so I could always get a great trade on those. Miriam wasn’t much of a trader, but maybe a few things – she mostly got her candy all perfectly organized. And after the trading was done and everyone was sent home, all my “stash” ended up in a bowl on top of the fridge. (A great hiding place when I was little, far less effective now that I’m nearly 6-feet tall.)

   Since Mom always made my lunch, she would put a few of my favorites into my lunchbox each day. And then after school, I would drag a chair over to the fridge and sneak down my bowl and eat the ones I didn’t think Mom would notice were missing – a definite advantage of being a latch-key kid.

   When Dad got home from work, he’d always sneak me a piece or two before Mom got home – under the conditions that we didn’t tell Mom, and that I eat all my dinner. I now realize that he sneaked it for me so he could snag a piece or two for himself too – but I never minded sharing with Dad.

   Because it wasn’t about the candy – it was about the sharing. I loved going to those certain houses and ringing the bell – and knowing what I was going to get. And the oooooo’s and ahhhhhhh’s from the older folks as they commented on our costumes year after year. I loved running around and spending the evening with my friends – and the sharing and trading with them afterward. And I loved sneaking candy from the bowl with Dad – like it was our big secret (although I’m quite sure now that we never pulled anything over on Mom. She was way too smart for that.)

Aren't people who dress up their dogs
for Halloween just ridiculous?

   I still like dressing up for Halloween – and do it almost every year. And the puppies get to dress up too, although they seem far less excited about their costumes. And if I could, I would go Trick-or-Treating. I would walk those same streets, knock on those same doors, gather those same treats.

   It was a wonderful time in my life. And they are memories I still cherish. As the Trick-or-Treaters came around tonight, it was fun to see them in their costumes – but it was even better to see the light in their eyes. I remember feeling those feelings. So if I show up some Halloween Night on your doorstep, holding a bag – just know it’s not the candy I’m after. Just reliving a memory.

DAY 44 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

Dale and his little brother Jack

On October 14, 1916, my grandparents, Frances Evans and John Lewis Roe, gave birth to their first child, Dale Evans Roe. Dad grew up in Preston, Idaho, and was surrounded by family most of his early life.

   When he was only 14-years-old his mother died suddenly, leaving his father to raise three young boys alone. Grandpa was a very rough-and-tumble man – who had played Professional Baseball, rode for the Pony Express, and ran a newspaper (the Preston Citizen). Dad’s dad was ill-equipped to be a single father. My dad told me that one time Grandpa had a business trip to go on, so he took the three boys (age 10-15) up by the Bear River to Camp-Out while he was gone for a few days – he left them with blankets, a fishing pole, and a hunting knife. Fortunately Grandma’s sisters, especially Mary and Erma, helped out with the boys frequently – and Dad maintained close relationships with “The Aunts” for the rest of their lives.

The 3 Boys: Bryce, Jack, Dale

   Dale graduated from Preston High in 1933, at age 16 (he had skipped 7th grade with my mom) – and started at the “AC” (now known as Utah State University) immediately. He had always worked at The Citizen, and continued to do so – and commuted from Preston to Logan, usually by hitchhiking. He and a few friends had what we would call a “Crash Pad” nowadays where he would stay over during bad weather. He told me that they used to keep a “Community Pot” on the stove, and everyone would just throw what veggies/meat/etc. they could come up with – and they just kept the pot of soup going for days on end.

   While in college, Dad also started dating Mom. She worked at Merrill’s Drug in Preston, and he would often go visit her at work – where she would sneak extra Malted into his shakes. They were married in 1936 (see post here), and Dad graduated from Utah State Agricultural College in 1937 – he was 20-years-old.

Dale at the Preston Citizen

   When he was age 23, Dad bought out his grandfather’s half of the Preston Citizen – making him the youngest newspaper owner in Idaho history (at least at the time). His grandpa, Watkin Lewis Roe, had founded the Citizen, and Dad was 3rd generation in the newspaper business – and since many uncles and cousins have followed in this family tradition.

   When World War II started, Dad and his father decided that they should sell the Preston Citizen – knowing they would both be involved in the war effort. Dad had been assigned a Draft Number and it was only a matter of time before he would be Called Up. And Grandpa was an expert machinist (from fixing newspaper presses his whole life), so he wanted to help with the war effort also – ending up in San Diego, working on Navy Vessels.

   Since his Senior Year of high school, Dad had also worked for the American Red Cross – starting as a Life Guard. Dad could swim like a fish – and could basically do anything in water. So as the war began, Red Cross assigned Dad to do Survival Training at military bases around the country. He taught midshipmen how to jump off a Battleship (a 50-foot drop) without breaking their legs. He taught soldiers how to swim through lakes that the Japanese would set on fire. He was sent to Wendover, Utah, to train Doolittle’s Raiders those survival skills – no one knowing that their mission would so drastically change the course of the war.

Teaching lifesaving -- dad is far right (in plaid)

   Through all of WWII, Dad continued this training – waiting for his number to be called. He would be on a base doing the training, and he would get notification that his number had been called and he was to report immediately. He would go to the Base Commander and show his orders, and the Base Commander would say, “This training is too valuable. I will get your number reassigned.” During the course of the war Dad had dozens of Draft Numbers, each one reassigned. He spent the entire war on military bases training soldiers – and did it all as a civilian working for the American Red Cross. He was never drafted.

My father
Dale Evans Roe

   As you can tell, my dad was my hero. And he still is. I have never known a kinder or gentler man. He was brilliant, funny, and a fabulous writer. He greeted everyone he met as a friend, and considered strangers just friends he hadn’t met yet. Dad loved everyone, and was generous and giving of his time and talents. He was a spiritual giant, and truly emulated the Savior in the way he lived his life.

   Today would have been his 98th birthday, and even though he has been gone nearly 10 years I still miss him every single day. And I am so grateful that he and Mom were crazy enough to adopt a newborn at age 50 and let me be part of their lives.

   Happy Birthday, Dad!

DAY 33 - DONATE - because we can change the world one step at a time

A few days ago I helped a friend move, and he had a few things that he no longer wanted – so at the end of the day we loaded them into my truck. After a few days of furniture and electronics rambling around in the back of my truck, today I finally got around to running them down to the Donation Center. A couple of nice young men emptied the back of my truck, and then handed me a coupon as a Thank You.

   Donations are a great thing. It’s a great feeling to take something that no longer serves you to somewhere that it can be shared with someone else. And if you don’t know anyone personally, these Donation Centers all around can make sure that the benefit goes to help someone that really needs the help.

   I have long been a shopper of Thrift Stores – going back to my childhood. My mom always loved finding a bargain, and my dad’s office even had a Thrift Store in it. My dad worked for the American Red Cross for 49 years, and often (especially during the summer) on days that Mom had to work, Dad would just take me to the office with him. At age 5, I was the youngest Red Cross Volunteer on record – and I really did volunteer. I would help deliver mail and messages around the building, help raise and lower the flag each day (back when people still did that), and I worked at the Red Cross Thrift Store. I would fold clothes, help count the change in the register, and sort toys (which was my favorite and I did it A LOT!)

   Sometimes people would come into the Thrift Store to shop for fun, sometimes because it was all they could afford (and even as a kid, I could tell), and sometimes people would come in to get things because they had nothing. I still remember a Mom and her two kids that came in one day – they still smelled like smoke, because their house had burned down overnight. They had a note from my Dad that gave some sort of instructions to Helen VanDyke, the 80-year-old woman that ran the Thrift Store most days – and Helen asked me to hold the bag as she loaded up clothes and other things that this family needed. I was only age 8, and about as tall as Mrs. VanDyke, but that image has stayed with me – because it was the first time I saw first-hand just how essential these donations can be. It meant everything to this family who now literally had nothing.

   So I try to donate when I can. Sometimes I have a few things, so I’ll just run a box down. Or after my Annual Garage Sale, the rest of the items are loaded into a truck and hauled down to a Donation Center. So far this summer I’ve already donated 3 truckloads, and another load or two will happen before the snow flies. And it’s good to clear out the space, and it’s good to share my excess, and it’s good to know that I’m helping out someone – like the family I remember so well from that day in my childhood.

Go into the world and do well. 

But more importantly, 

go into the world and do good.

DAY 31 - HORIZONTAL LIFE PAUSES (because taking a nap sounds too childish)

Today I went over to visit a friend who is recovering from surgery, just to sit with her and be with her for a little bit. While I was there she got tired and took a nap, so I headed out to the Kitchen table. After a little while, I went into check on her, just to make sure she was okay – and she was sound asleep, white noise in the background, and looking so peaceful sleeping there. It was not only just what she needed, but it made me a little jealous too.

   Because I don't sleep much at night, I very rarely take naps because, well, they really just mess-up my sleeping patterns even more. But today, I guess because I was inspired/jealous (and I was tired), so I took a nap.

   Naps are an amazingly glorious thing. And they are good for everyone. Just think about it:

   When a little kid takes a nap, the kid wakes up happy and wanting to play. And Kid Naps are good for the parents too (just ask the parent of any 2-year-old) -- even if only for a slight break in the day when the house is quiet.

   Dads take naps, often in the middle of a football game on a Saturday afternoon (more likely to happen if they are in charge of the kids).

   My dad was a napper. He was our bishop when I was little, and I remember Mom sending me up to “sit on his lap” – which I now realize was to keep him awake during Sacrament Meeting. I mean, who can sleep with an active 2-year-old on their lap. Dad was one of those people that could fall asleep anywhere.

   But when we were little, we would fight having to take a nap. What were we thinking??? I remember the little mats we made in kindergarten for Nap Time: mine was leopard print. Even 40 years later I still remember that Nap Mat – and I remember it fondly.

   When I was a kid, we often went on Sunday drives as a family – often to go visit friends, sometimes an hour or so away. One of my favorite things was falling asleep in the backseat of Dad’s Buick on the long ride home. I would wake up a few hours later, in a hot car, with all the windows rolled down – all sweaty and warm – and it was fabulous.

   And even within the last few years, when I was working at Tahitian Noni, and my house was only 1.2 miles from work – sometimes I would run home for lunch. And sometimes that lunch break would include a 15-minute power nap. Even just a quick 15 minutes, and I was ready to go back and face anything.

   So today, I got up, went to visit a friend for a few hours, ran a few errands, sent out a bunch of resumes. And then I started to feel a little tired, so I went to bed. It was just that simple – I went to bed. I pulled the blankets up over me, waited until the dogs got settled in, and then closed my eyes – for about 2 hours! It was amazing!

   I woke up with pillow creases on my face and my hair a jumbled mess, and I was a little bit groggy – but I felt fabulous. And that is probably the first nap I have had in the last couple of years – but hopefully not the last. Maybe this being-at-home and sleeping-in-my-own-bed thing could become a habit.

   And yes, I already want a nap tomorrow.

DAY 30 - WHERE DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM?

Although I started this for myself, I’m surprised at how many people are reading my blog: over 3500 in the past month, and 8000+ ever. When I look at Facebook I’ll see a post that has maybe a dozen “Likes” and maybe a comment or two – and then go look at the Stats on my blog and see that over 200 people have read it.

   Don’t get me wrong – I am incredibly flattered. I started this 83-day Journey for myself, but between the Comments, Facebook Messages, and personal conversations I am learning that there are quite a few people out there that are silently reading it. And from a few of the messages I’ve received, it’s helping others too.

   As a kid, I used to press my ear against my bedroom wall – and early mornings and late nights I could hear the tap-tap-tap of my father typing in the Kitchen. Dad was always a writer. Born into a newspaper family, he grew up with ink in his blood – and watched his father and grandfather work at getting the paper out together every day. When he was age 23, Dad bought out his grandfather’s share of the Preston Citizen – and was the youngest newspaper owner in Idaho’s history (at least at the time). Even long after he sold (due to WWII), he continue to write – Red Cross, United Way, Kiwanis, and pretty much any organization he was involved in benefitted from his gift for writing. He was the editor of the Cal-Nev-Ha newspaper for Kiwanis for over 20 years. Even into his 80s, Dad worked on his Personal History – and a novel he’d always wanted to write, that he passed along to me to finish. And it’s literally in our blood, because among my uncles and cousins, there are at least a dozen of us that write – both personally and professionally. I guess it’s just what Roes do.

   And in today’s society, we are readers. We are Information Junkies. Even within Facebook, I think my newstream is filled with as many Shared Links as personally posted photos and updates. Nobody uses an encyclopedia anymore – we just Google it, and often end up on someone’s blog. Sometimes just for a random bit of information or instruction, sometimes we follow blogs of specific people we like or are interested in.

   We have become Internet Voyeurs. Without even leaving our house, we can be Peeping Toms, looking into the windows of people all over the country, all over the world. Through their blogs we sneak-a-peek through their curtains and see what it going on inside. And as someone who lives in a glass house, I have admittedly left the curtains wide open.

   Sometimes I write something that I expect to get read, like Divorce vs. Annulment – because it was something that I couldn’t find information about. Sometimes it’s something that I know is a bit of a “Hot Topic” like Women and the Priesthood  – which I want to express my opinion about. But sometimes it’s just my personal ramblings about my messy desk or playing the piano – and still they get read. And there is something about knowing that people are reading that pushes me to continue to write, to try to be funny or eloquent, to push myself as a writer more than I ever have.

   That’s really why I started blogging – because it pushes me beyond my own limits. I’ve been a rather faithful Journal Writer for many years. Many (if not most) of my journal entries never get finished – but I just stop when I run out of time. But with blogging, it has to be thought-out and complete. I write a rough draft, and I go back and edit it (usually a couple of times). I take some time to find a photo or quote (or two) that I think adds to my own words. It’s a finished and completed Writing – hopefully with a cherry on top.

   Because, in reality, it isn’t just a few hundred random words that I’m putting out there – it’s a part of me, maybe the deepest part of me. Writing is looking deep within, and finding some small piece of my soul to share with the world – and polishing it and shaping it. For most of my life, all of my writing just got shoved in a drawer or tucked on a shelf. But this blogging world has allowed me to put my heart out there. It’s scary – rather terrifying – to do, but also incredibly rewarding too.

   So I do it, every day, for a whole month now. Putting my heart on paper, and waiting – wondering what people will think. For the most part, I have no idea what people really think. These Internet Voyeurs stalk around silently, so I have no idea who they are or what they think. But I am grateful for the positive comments from friends, and for the reading by strangers too. And, because I have shared this piece of my soul with you, that somehow connects us – makes us friends. And more than the thousands of clicks on my blog, I’m grateful for the hundreds of new connections that I have out there in the world.

I will write until not a single word 

remains in my soul … 

until every story in my heart has been told … 

until my mind’s well of ideas is bone dry … 

and even then I will write on 

because writing is not just something I do 

but part of who I am.

DAY 18 - CREATIVE MINDS ARE RARELY TIDY

Over the past few years, in Annual Performance Reviews, one item has come up over and over:  Desk is Clean and Tidy, Score 1 (out of 5). It’s always been my weakness – even as a kid. So, once a year, just before Performance Reviews, I would clean up my desk – at least a little bit.

My father, Dale Evans Roe, at work at
American Red Cross, Oakland, about 1972.

   And, it’s definitely an inherited trait. My dad’s desks – at both home and work – were always a mess. Mom was patient as his desk clutter slowly overtook half of the Kitchen Table too. I think it’s because Dad always had so many things going on, too many projects – and he wanted to keep an eye on them all. Yup, I definitely inherited that from him.

   I’m a “Collector” – not quite to the levels of Hoarding, but I do have a few weaknesses. In fact, I love to watch the Hoarding shows on Netflix – they always make me feel better about my housekeeping skills. I collect books and information, a bit to excess. Today when I counted, all 14 bookcases in my house were filled – and there were books that didn’t even fit onto the shelves. It was time to do something.

   So that was today’s task: Organize my Den. I sorted papers, shredded stacks of documents, organized office supplies, and cleared out the books that I decided I can live without. I filed old tax returns, divorce papers, annulment papers. I ran across the Wedding Cards from a few months ago, and tucked them away for a time when I’m not feeling quite so fragile. And as I added recent Journal entries to the shelf, I ran across cards and notes and letters to and from the men in my life – which will stay a part of my journal, because all of those things have made me who I am today. At the end of the day I had 2 big black bags of shredding, another big bag of trash, 4 boxes of books to sell, and a nice pile of extra office supplies to give away.

Dad's Antique Desk. A rare glimpse of the desktop.

   It’s nice to have a Clean Desk – at least for now. I don’t expect it to stay that way, because I have a few projects that I want to work on – and they require spreading out. Maybe a few too many projects, but they’re too intriguing to put off any longer.

   And as the piles creep back up, and book magically appear and overfill the shelves, and notebooks fill with thoughts and ideas – well, my desk will look my like my dad’s. And that’s OK, because it is Dad’s desk. I inherited a beautiful old antique desk that once belonged to my father, so it’s fitting if my desk habits look much like his as well. If I’m blessed to have any ideas similar to his, or a heart as big as his, or a writing talent as fabulous as his – I will count myself lucky. Dad was a creative soul that was rarely tidy, and I guess so am I.

You say I'm messy. I say my things are arranged in 
an abstract manner intentionally as part of 
my unquenchable thirst for creative expression.

DAY 6 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE!

Michael Evans Roe in 1950

On September 6, 1946, my mom gave birth to their first child: Michael Evans Roe. Having been childless for 10 years, they were thrilled to finally have the family they’d always wanted. They lived in a tiny rented 1-bedroom house, and converted the closet under the stairs into a bedroom for Mike. There was a washtub they used for washing clothes, dishes, and the baby. This washtub saw a lot of use.

Mike loved playing Cowboy

   One day, when he was only 4-years-old, Mike was outside playing Cowboys with a few of the neighbor kids – when he was hit by a drunk driver – right in front of this house. According to the newspaper article, he was hit so hard that it knocked the cowboy boots right off his feet. By the time my dad got to the hospital, it was too late. He found Mom sitting in the hospital waiting room, clutching Mike’s teddy bear. She was devastated – and she never got over it. Never.

   Dad’s cousin Lewis drove up to Oakland to scoop up Mom and Dad and take care of them. Lew was smart enough to know that going home to that empty house should wait for a few days. Lew’s wife Alice fixed them the only thing Mom would eat, Warm Milk and Bread. My Uncle DeVoe paid for the headstone. Everyone stepped up and helped Mom & Dad through the worst time of their life. Everyone except the driver. The drunk driver was never charged (it was 1950), never apologized, and never paid a dime of the hospital or burial costs.

Mom & Mike - his 1st birthday

   Mike would have been age 19 when I was born, and Mom still couldn’t talk about him – or even say his name without crying. And 35 years later, when she died, that still held true. She was heartbroken for the 50 years from when Mike died until she passed away at age 83 – she literally never got over it. I remember once when I was about 5 or 6, Mom was crying in her bedroom – so Dad gently scooted me out to the dining room. As he emptied his pockets he told me that sometimes Mom got sad, and we just needed to be quiet and let her rest. Over the years that happened fairly regularly. I now understand why.

    When I was age 15 my now-married sister, Fran, came to Oakland to visit. For a Genealogy class she’d taken at BYU, she had ordered Mike’s Death Certificate – and on it was listed the cemetery where he was buried. Neither of us had ever been there. We snuck away and drove to the cemetery, looked in the designated location, but couldn’t find his grave. It was a small section in an enormous cemetery – a section specifically designated for infants and children. We looked at the dates from the 1940s and 1950s, laid out chronologically – and the ages, from infants that died at birth to children that died at only 8-years-old. It was a small section of the cemetery, but it was certainly filled with sadness. We found the place we thought should be Mike’s grave, but it was just a bare spot of grass – with no headstone to mark his resting place. We continued to search the area, but we were sure this was the spot – but we were also sure that something was wrong. Unfortunately it was late in the day, and the cemetery was closing – so we had to leave, with all of these questions unanswered. And because we knew it would upset our parents, Fran and I decided to just have it be our secret.

   Six months later when I got my Driver’s License, I went back to the cemetery – this time all alone. I went to the office, again looked, again returned to that bare patch of grass. So I returned to the Cemetery Office and explained the situation. A very nice woman pulled out a file, confirmed that a headstone had been purchased, and send a Groundskeeper out with me to see if a little grass had grown over the marker. He walked to that same spot of grass where I thought Mike was buried, and tapped the ground with his shovel. Nothing. More tapping, a bit deeper – still nothing. Then he stepped on the shovelhead, all the way into the ground before the “klink” of the metal shovel hitting the granite headstone. The full shovel head – about 12-inches-long. It had been 30 years since Mike died, and his loss had been so painful that my parents hadn’t been back to the cemetery in 30 years. 30 years of grass had grown over the unvisited headstone.

Mike at Lake Merritt 1949

   Mike died 64 years ago, and would have turned 68-years-old today – but he is forever frozen in time as a 4-year-old.  Almost everyone that knew him is gone now. My sister and I never got to meet him, and know very few stories about him. But for 4 years he was the center of the universe for my parents. For 50 years his loss was my mother’s deepest heartache. And forever he will be our big brother.

   And that’s the beauty of understanding the gospel and having a testimony. You get to be sealed as a family, so the amount of time that you get to spend together on this earth is only part of the picture. The loss of a child is the most heartwrenching experience any parent can go through, but knowing you will be together for eternity can buoy you through the difficult times. After my mom passed away, Dad told me of a dream he had:  Mom and Mike were walking down the big hill at the cemetery, hand in hand – together. And I know that my dad believed it, and it comforted him to know that they were finally together again.

Dad and Mike

  And that’s why Mormons build temples and do genealogy – because Family is what this life is all about. It is the reason we come to this earth, and it is the reason that we love – because we are building those bonds here that will continue long after this life ends. When you know about eternity, you want eternity. And because we have a loving Heavenly Father, we can have eternity.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, MOM & DAD!

Today would have been 78 years.

Lela & Dale Roe

My parents grew up together. Went to Elementary School together. Skipped 7^th Grade together. Graduated from Preston High in 1933, together. And on July 7, 1936, they asked my mom’s step-father to drive them to Logan, they went to the temple together and were Sealed for Time and Eternity, and then went home. No fancy clothes, no reception, no one with them – and not even one photograph from that day. It was the middle of the Depression – they wanted to get married, so they got married. It was that simple.

   They were married 63-years when my mother passed away, and Dad missed her every-single-day until he joined her 5 years later. He literally couldn’t remember his life without her in it. And I never had any doubt that my dad absolutely LOVED & ADORED my mom. I knew it, she knew it, and everyone that knew them knew it.

   Not that life was easy for them. They got married during the Depression, and then WWII came along. They were married 10 years before they were able to have any children, and when my brother Michael was 4-years-old he was hit by a drunk driver right in front of their house – leaving them again childless. About a year later my sister Fran came along, and when she was 13-years-old they decided to adopt me. They had lots of ups-and-downs – like everyone does, but they came from an era where people understood what marriage really means and they always worked things out because that was the only option they could even imagine.

   I am grateful for amazing parents that loved each other and loved me. I am grateful for an amazing example of what Love and Dedication can really be. It can still be like that. Anyone can have that. My parents had that because they wanted it – and they worked at it, every single day.