Incident in the South China Sea

An experience told by Edward O. Dayley, Major, Retired, U.S.A. Army

Here I am on the beach; picture taken by a soldier

How are we influenced and are we really listening when our Heavenly Father is talking to us? Who is directing us during this time frame? While I was in Vietnam, I had several experiences when I knew I was being prompted by our Heavenly Father. One took place when I was Operations Officer at Bearcat in April 1971 (near Chu Lai).

Since I was an Instructor Pilot, I’d been given a mission to give a checkride one day. In Vietnam checkrides were given every six months or whenever a pilot was made an aircraft commander. What you did on a checkride was to take the pilot through all the emergency procedures, all routine procedures, make sure they were able to handle the aircraft, see if their judgment was good, and if they could fly the missions they were assigned to fly.

Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

When we got out to the aircraft that morning, the aircraft that I was originally assigned to give the checkride in was restricted from doing running landings which was normally one of our procedures. However, as an I.P. (Instructor Pilot) I could wave that portion of the checkride if I wanted to. But I felt, “No, I want to give this particular individual the running landing.” So, I talked to another aircrew that was getting ready to go out on a regular mission that day, and their aircraft was okay for running landings, so we coordinated with maintenance officer to see if there was any problem with swapping aircrafts. He consented to letting us go ahead and swap aircraft.

Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com

We took off on the checkride, and everything was perfectly normal—no problems whatsoever. The airfield where I gave the checkride was located right next to South China Sea, and as we were downwind over the sea, suddenly there was a loud bang and the aircraft swung violently to the right. I thought initially, we had had a midair collision with an aircraft coming up off the airfield who had taken off and hit us in the back of the aircraft. In my mind, I visualized the aircraft on fire, falling into the ocean and exploding. I grabbed the controls from the young pilot and headed the aircraft for the beach.

Now, normally when you have things like this happen, emergency procedures are to reduce the throttle and make an auto rotation down. However, this time, for some reason, I did not do this. I did the exact opposite. I did not reduce the throttle—I kept it full open. I kept all the power that I had, that the engine could produce, applied to the rotor system. Why I did this I don’t know. I just did it. I can’t say that I was told to do it or directed to do it. It was just one of those things that for some reason, I did. I kept the full throttle applied.

Note from the G.I. who towed the helicopter and took Ed’s photo (1st photo above)

Note says: “Dear Sir, here is your picture, next time you drop in, be a little more careful and you won’t need towing out, Just an acquaintance, Shrimp (nickname) from the 116th.”

We made the beach. When we landed, I turned aircraft to land on a steep slope—a 25- degree slope. Usually, you can’t make a landing on a 25-degree slope in that particular aircraft. How I did it, I don’t have any idea. I just know I did. One skid was in the water, the other skid on the beach. That is how close it came to going in the water. When the collective pitch was reduced, as the skids touched the beach, the rotor blades came to an immediate stop. Fortunately, because of where we were and my extraordinary actions, both the other pilot and I were safe.

When maintenance checked the engine, they discovered that transmission oil was lost due to blown seals, resulting in internal failure of the transmission. The pieces of the transmission were ground into small, magnetized metal, pieces of which I still have.

Vietnam war, helicopters, accidents, prayers
Ed Dayley, Vietnam, circa 1971

Now, if this aircraft, originally scheduled for another mission had gone on its original mission, there is a very good possibility that the 10 to 14 people aboard (it would have been a loaded aircraft) would not have been as fortunate as we had been. If that aircraft had gone out flying out over the mountains, in very rough terrain, with virtually no landing areas available for them, when the transmission had seized up, there is little chance that they could have landed safely. Maybe I was just a tool in the hand of our Heavenly Father; if we had not swapped aircraft most likely everybody on that other aircraft would have been killed. In swapping aircraft, I was extremely fortunate in being exactly where I was in the situation where I was in, to land the aircraft safely.

Our Father in Heaven does give guidance to us. We may not recognize that guidance comes from our Father in Heaven. At the time that this occurrence happened, I would not have said that I had had a vision like Moses did with the burning bush or that I heard a voice like Moses heard coming out of the bush telling him to do this or not to do this. But looking back on it, I know the promptings of the spirit were coming to me. I know that I was being given guidance and direction on what to do. I know that I was being looked after by our Father in Heaven. I know that our Father in Heaven will guide us and direct us and help us in these things.

My Mother’s Cooking

My mother, Jennie Hansen

My mother was not a great cook. To her cooking was the way to prepare food so your family didn’t starve, and in as inexpensive a manner as possible! She had a large family, seven children, too much to do, and it was just another chore. She was an artist, and she saved her creativity for painting, not for something as plebian as cooking.

From the time I was about 14 years old, I became the main cook of the family. Mother had breast cancer at that time and was very ill for a long time, and as the oldest daughter, I took over the cooking, and other chores. I loved to cook, and to experiment with cooking, so it became my job after that. My younger siblings recall many of the meals I made for the family.

Mother cooked plain things—meat and potatoes, eggs, vegetables. She had been raised in a poor family during the Depression, so she never knew anything but plain, inexpensive food. We were a farm family until I was 14 years old, with chickens and a cow. So, we had plenty of eggs and milk. We went up to Burley Idaho each year and brought back bags of pinto beans and potatoes. Dad had a garden where we grew vegetables, which we ate. Mother used her food budget to squeeze money for other things out of, so we had beans for Sunday dinner for years (I don’t remember a roast for Sunday dinner ever). Dad loved eggs so we had Egg ala Goldenrod (we’d call them Eggs Grotten) often. We had potatoes all the time, fixed every way you could fix them. Other favorite recipes were Shepherd’s pie, Scalloped Potatoes, and Macaroni and Cheese.

My brother recently wrote a blog that reminded me of other food items at our house growing up—Mother always had a bowl of sugar on the table (I think it was for my father, who later became a diabetic). Dad put it on tomatoes, and watermelon—ugh!!!!! The kids put it on cereal, as Mom only bought the cheapest, unsweetened puffed rice or puffed wheat. Mom also a bowl of cinnamon sugar handy so you could put it on buttered toast and make your own cinnamon bread.

We got whole milk delivered to our house but with growing kids, Mom always watered it down with powdered milk. She’d skim off the cream and mix the powdered milk and whole milk (minus the cream—half and half. I didn’t mind, I didn’t like milk and never drank it anyway, so I never noticed. It was just another way Mom economized, but still gave us lots of fresh milk.

Mother loved sugar and chocolate. Sometimes when she craved sugar, she’d mix shortening—yes that’s right—and sugar together and eat it!!!! (It wasn’t even powdered sugar so you couldn’t call it frosting. She loved everything chocolate!!!!! Another favorite was cream puffs.

We bottled our own fruit and vegetables, so we never had canned food, except for pork and beans, which we ate when we had nothing else to eat. You had your big Sunday dinner (beans with a ham hock), and then on Sunday night a special treat was canned peaches and bread. You’d get it yourself so there was no big sit-down dinner. I think it was so special because I didn’t have to make it for the family—everyone could do it on their own.

Sometimes we’d bottled homemade root beer by putting yeast in the bottles and seal them. But you had to watch that they didn’t get too old and ferment. More often you’d get dry ice and just make a batch of homemade root beer to drink all at once.

At Christmas time she made raised doughnuts to give to everyone! Her recipe made enough for a neighborhood.  I have the remains of her recipe which she’d cut out of a magazine, but it was an unusual one with nutmeg in it. For years I made them and shared them with friends and neighbors and even typed up the recipe and gave it to others, but the last few years I haven’t made it.

I have several cranberry salad recipes that were hers—but they were typed and not hand-written. I think they were given to her to make for a ward dinner. One is my special salad/relish that I make every Christmas and few in my family eat it. I have three recipes in her handwriting: “Carrot and Rice Casserole” that I’ve never made, nor do I remember her making, and two recipes for Danish Aebliskivers, an apple pancake made in a special pan.

Mother was first generation Danish, but I don’t recall her cooking anything Danish except Danish Dessert—out of the box. We did not have the aebliskivers pans, and Mother never made aebliskivers, so I must have asked her for the recipes. I eventually bought the pan and made the aebliskivers for my family. Mother told me about her mother (Grandmother Hendrickson) making Danish blood pudding out of the blood of meat (YUCK!)


Jennie’s Danish Doughnuts


3 ¾ c. milk, scalded and cooled to lukewarm

¼ c. warm, not hot water

1 ½ packages dry granular yeast

1 ½ c. sifted all purpose flour

2 c. sugar

½ lb. Butter

1 tsp. Salt

4 eggs

1 ½ tsp nutmeg

10-11 c. flour

Dissolve yeast in warm, not hot water, and allow to stand for 5 minutes; add to milk. Add 1 ½ cup flour and beat to a smooth batter. Cover and let rise in a warm place until very light and full of bubbles, about 3 hours.

Add beaten eggs, salt, nutmeg, butter, sugar, flour and stir to a soft dough. Keep in a bowl and knead very lightly. Set to rise in a warm place until double in bulk. Roll out on lightly floured surface to ½ inch thickness. Cut with doughnut cutter and allow to rise until double in bulk. Fry in deep fat (375º) until golden brown. Dredge in sugar or frost. Makes 6 doz.

Egg Ala Goldenrod


1/4 cup butter  

1/4 cup flour                

1/4 teaspoon. salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1 cup milk

4 hard-boiled eggs

6 pieces toast (or biscuits, rolls)

Melt butter; blend in flour, salt and pepper. Cook over low heat, stirring until mixture is smooth; remove from heat. Slowly stir in milk. Bring to a boil over direct heat, stirring constantly. Boil 1 minute. Stir in chopped egg whites.

 Just before serving, pour sauce over toast, biscuits, rolls, etc., and top with smushed egg yolks.

4 servings.       

Shepherd’s Pie:

(This is made with leftovers of a roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy and vegetables)

Mix 1/2 c. diced meat (left-over roast) or 1/2 lb browned ground beef in a casserole dish with 1 c. cooked vegetables, 1 c. gravy, 1/4 t. salt, and cover with 1 c. left-over mashed potatoes.  Bake 30 minutes or until potatoes brown slightly.

Make gravy by browning juices and melted fat of beef with 1/4 c. flour, salt and pepper and add 1 c. water.  Stir until smooth and bubbly.)

All that is left of my mother’s raised doughnut original recipe.

Recipe written in my mother’s hand

Aebliskiver pan

The Luck of the Irish

My husband, Ed, has the luck of the Irish. He can find a parking place right by the front door of stores (even in Los Angeles where there are no parking places), whereas I feel lucky if I find a parking place in the a mile away. He win raffles, is chosen first for teams and has every other example of good luck known to man. Even if he has problems, like running out of gas, it is nullified because he runs out of gas in front of the gas station.

My husband Ed

He attributes this good luck to his “Irish” heritage, per his last name of “Dayley,” yet he is equally parts German, English, Danish, Swedish—and mostly American! He attributes my lack of luck to my Danish heritage as “everyone” knows the only luck the Danish have is bad luck!

Do the Irish Have Better Luck Than Other Nationalities?

However, the phrase “luck of the Irish” is an ironic phrase. The Irish have been and are a spectacularly unlucky race. Even in America, they were looked down on as low-class immigrants. But the notion that Irish are inherently luckier than others can be traced to the 1850s in the United States where, during the exploration for gold in the West, there were a high number of Irish people who got lucky, and found their “pot o’ gold” in the gold fields of California, or were equally prosperous in silver mining.[i]

Lucky Irishmen

What Is Luck?

Luck is difficult to explain. The dictionary defines it as “a belief in good or bad fortune in life caused by accident or chance, and attributed by some to reasons of faith or superstition, which happens beyond a person’s control.”[ii]

Symbols of luck

The Romans embodied luck as a goddess, “Fortuna” while people in America believe in common symbols of luck such as rabbit’s feet, four-leaf clover, horse shoes, wishbones, and “lucky” seven. In other countries, good-luck symbols are pigs, fish, fish scales, acorns, tortoises. I can remember as a child looking through lilac flowers to find one that had three flowers (or was it four? Whatever it was, it was different from the ordinary number). If I found one, I’d put it in my shoe and make a wish. Perhaps good luck symbols became lucky because they were commonly uncommon items like four-leaf clovers instead of ordinary three-leaf ones.

Luck as a self-fulfilling prophecy

Can a feeling that you are lucky become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Although few believe in superstition, and many discourage dependence on a “lucky shirt” for a ball player, or blind faith in lucky objects, is there any benefit in believing in luck?

lucky shamrock

Some psychologists feel belief in good luck, although it is a false idea, may produce positive thinking, much like a placebo provides benefits although there are no inherently beneficial ingredients in them. Studies have also shown that “People who believe in good luck are more optimistic, more satisfied with their lives, and have better moods”[iii]

Can Anyone Be Happy?

So, should you decide you are lucky, and then live like you are? Why not? If it makes you happier and brings you better luck, it seems a no brainer to not to. Another article said, “If ‘good’ and ‘bad’ events occur at random to everyone, believers in good luck will experience a net gain in their fortunes, and vice versa for believers in bad luck. This is clearly likely to be self-reinforcing.[iv]

So from this day forward, I, too, have the luck of the Irish because I am married to an Irishman. Or maybe I am lucky because if I could choose to be an Irishman, I would be. Maybe people born in March are lucky; or maybe the Danish are luckier than the Irish. Or maybe I was just born lucky, no matter what nationality I am. Maybe all Americans are just naturally lucky!

I just know that I am lucky. And so are you. Eat your heart out, Ed!

[i] http://Wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_origin_of_the_ter_%Luck_of_theIrish%27

[ii] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luck

[iii] Maltby, J., Day, L., Gill, P., Colley, A., Wood, A. M. (2008). Beliefs around luck: Confirming the empirical conceptualization of beliefs around luck and the development of the Darke and Freedman beliefs around luck scale Personality and Individual Differences, 45, 655-660.

[iv] Ibid.

Artifact or Junk

We had been stationed at a military base in Northern Italy for 2 ½ years, and at never had the chance to get to Greece. So, in Easter of 1987, we celebrated by taking our children, 18-year-old Athena, 17-year-old Marc, 10-year-old Diana and baby Bryan to Greece for spring break. Our oldest, Marlowe was on a mission in Rome, Italy.

We arrived in Athens and discovered that the arrangements for our hotel had been mixed up. Here we were without a room during the busiest season—Easter. However, the hotel clerk made some calls around and finally got us a room in a new unfinished hotel for the night. With Bryan crying and everyone unhappy, we waited outside the room while they made up the room and walked up the stairs; the elevators weren’t working yet. However, I was only glad to get a bed for the night.

When we got settled, I wasn’t sure how fortunate we were. There was still construction going on to make the hotel ready to open before Easter was over. Hammering and other loud sounds went on all night. A storm howled outside almost as much as Bryan did inside; I got a headache.

our Greek relic

Ed and I went for a walk along the beach early in the morning leaving Bryan with the older children. No one was sleeping much. As we walked along the stormed tossed beach, Ed saw a small carved copy of a marble Phoenician ship with its sails broken off among the flotsam and seaweed dredged up by the storm. He insisted it was a valuable ancient relic brought up from the depths of the sea by the storm. I insisted it was no such thing; it was a simple carving made by one of the local fishermen who, when he broke the sails, threw it away.

Back at the hotel, everyone joined in with their assessment of the item. Marc joined Ed proclaiming it a priceless relic. Athena, towel-drying her freshly shampooed hair and frustrated because she couldn’t use her hairdryer because the electric current was 220 not 110 volts, just shook her head and rolled her eyes. Diana, impressed with Ed and Marc’s edicts of its value, was excited to think we’d found something so valuable on our first day there. She couldn’t wait to go down to the beach and find gold coins from the Trojan War, or something like that.

Exploring ruins with a baby

“It can’t be anything valuable.” I finally stated.  “Besides, if it were, we couldn’t take it out of Greece. There are all kind of restrictions against taking ancient artifacts out of the country.” Bryan just gurgled, happy to be getting fed.

We changed hotels to a downtown international hotel and went into Athens. I was fascinated by everything, but Athena looked and acted blasé (typical teenager).  Ed had his eyes open for everything, military and otherwise. Marc quickly got bored with shopping so after we went back to the hotel for lunch, he said he’d stay there and take care of Bryan while we went back downtown shopping.

Ed on acropolis

What a story Marc had to tell when we got back! He’d taken Bryan down to the hotel bar, thinking that the cute girls would coo at Bryan and start talking to him. He’d quickly discovered that a baby was more than an attention-getting device for girls—everyone commented on the blond baby.

Marc started talking to a man there who turned out to be a Libyan Air Force pilot who spoke English.  Marc became nervous when the man asked what Marc’s father did and why we were in Greece. This pilot had been in Bengasi, Libya a little over a year before when the United States had bombed there. Because of Ed’s position in NATO and the U.S. army, Marc was very vague in explaining what his American father did for a living. 

On the bus back to the hotel, a Lebanese man had talked to Athena and made her very paranoid because he was very anti-American. He told her that the little four-year-old girl with him had had almost all her relatives killed in the Palestinian wars and was staying with her grandmother in Greece trying to get a visa to Australia.

The next day we went to the Acropolis, and I was prepared with all my guidebooks to teach everyone the history of Greece. I love history and I study up on wherever we are going to go, and lecture to everyone out of the guidebooks at every site.

Athena posing on Acropolis

There Athena poised next to the statue of the goddess Athena that she was named for, and I was standing next to her with Bryan in a carrying pack, telling the history of the Acropolis. Diana was skipping all over the ruins and Ed had disappeared. Marc was shaking his head and trying to ignore me.

Later we went to Mars Hill. I stood where Paul the apostle stood as he taught the people about the “unknown God.” My reverie was broken as I heard Athena laugh.

“Diana was trying to look cool and flip her purse and she flipped it into her face and about fell over.” Athena said.

Diana with purse

“And I got a movie picture of it happening,” Marc crowed.

“Did neither of you feel how momentous it is to stand here on Mars’ hill?” I asked.

“Are you going to start reading out of your guidebook if we say no?” Athena asked.

“I give up,” I said, walking away. Ed walked over with Bryan in the carrying pack and asked if I was ready to hold him. “Yes, maybe he’ll be impressed with this place,” I replied.

We were walking down the hill toward town when we picked up the tablecloth lady. She walked beside me and harangued me to buy a tablecloth. She enumerated its quality in detail, but I kept saying no, but it made no difference. She kept on pleading with us for blocks. Ed would pop in occasionally with “too much” and she’d look at him and talk to him for a minute and bring down the price a little before pleading with me, telling me how nice it would look on my table, how wonderful it would be for my family to sit around it as they ate.

Bryan as a three-month old in Athens

Finally, Ed gave up and said, “I’ll buy it just to get some quiet.” As I looked at him in astonishment, he asked, “You did want it, didn’t you?” I nodded. He paid for it, handed it to Marc to hold and asked, “Now where do we go next?”

Our highlight of the trip was a three-island one-day excursion onboard a ship. The ship dropped us off on each island, then came back several hours later to pick us up and take us to the next island. We enjoyed the first island. It was so different than Athens. Marc saw slabs of whole lamb meat hanging on a butcher shop window and told Diana it was our pet dog, Sissy, whom they’d slaughtered and hung there. It took me a half hour to settle her down. Everyone took turns carrying Bryan to take the burden off me, but I still got tired easily, as I was still anemic and worn out from his emergency C-section six weeks before.

Just as we were coming into our second island, I hurried to change Bryan’s diaper before we went ashore, and Diana stayed with me reminding me to hurry or we’d be left onboard. Sure enough, by the time we were ready to disembark, the ship was just pulling up the ramp in our faces. Diana began to cry and holding her in one arm and Bryan in another, I tried to calm her. They explained they couldn’t go back. The harbor was very narrow, and many ships were in line to dock; each ship had to hurry in, drop their people and go right out again in so many minutes. It would be at least an hour before they had another opportunity to drop us ashore again. A crewmember took Diana to the bridge, let her “steer” the ship, and even let her talk to the captain.

Athena talking to someone onboard cruise

Later, between islands everyone was in the main area of the ship playing bingo (it was free). Diana was so excited and concentrating on the game, while Athena and Marc were putting lemon slices in Bryan’s mouth to see him make faces. Suddenly Diana yelled “Bingo.” She took her card and ran to the front of the large room where they were calling numbers. They explained to her that they were playing blackout Bingo and she just had regular Bingo. She was so disappointed that they gave her a few postcards and she came back to us. Marc gave her a few lemons to suck on.

We were there in Athens on Good Friday, and we saw a fascinating ceremony of them carrying a symbolic crucified body of Christ through the streets, before taking it into a chapel. We video-taped the ceremony and all the festivities in the streets, but by then we’d moved into the American hotel and Marc and Athena were having so much fun with the American teens in the bowling alley that they couldn’t be interested in historic stuff.

As we got ready to go to the church to see the finale of the Good Friday celebrations—the fireworks and celebrations to commemorate resurrection of the savior, Marc and Athena decided not to go with us, but to go to a cool Greek disco they’d heard about. We were outside the church crushed in the middle of the crowd at midnight, with Diana half asleep and Bryan asleep in my carrying bag, when just as the fireworks began, Athena and Mark appeared.

“There were no cute girls at the disco,” Marc said.

“No, they’re all here,” Athena added. “So, we came here, too.”  Ed pulled me close and hugged me. The fireworks lit up the sky and our faces glowed in their reflection. Marc lifted Diana up, so she could see better. Bryan slept on oblivious.

I thought of the tiny carved Phoenician ship we’d found at the beginning of our trip. Was it a rare ancient artifact? Was it a useless broken tourist toy? Or was it what we make of it? 

“Where Did I Put That?”

As we age, we tend to lose things more than before, but I began to lose things years ago. Maybe that’s because I began to lose my mind years ago.

I still get frustrated when I can’t find something—especially if I have just put it down. One

thing I always lose are my glasses. Therefore I have decided to put them in a special place on my china case, which is right inside our house, whether you come in from the upstairs or downstairs. However they still go missing.

Before we had to move to Los Angeles for nine months a few years ago I made a master plan of my house, put alphabetic stickers on everything which could hold anything (where it couldn’t be seen) and made a map with matching alphabetic keys which told what was in each storage area. I thought then I could remember what was in each storage area while I was gone. Then if I needed something, I could call my son who was living in the house and say, “Send me the ___________ which is the drawer labeled “EE” in my dressing room.

It worked well enough until I lost the map with the key.

When I got back, I started rearranging things and there went my plan. I found most of the time I can’t find stuff is right after I’ve gone through stuff, gotten rid of stuff and reorganized things. (There, family, I do go through and get rid of things—you thought I never did.)

For the first while after I’ve rearranged things, I can’t remember where the new thing belongs!!!

I have decided there are four reasons things disappear in my house:

1. My youngest son: He hides them to frustrate me. No, he is not a child—he is 34-years-old, but he likes to tease me and move my glasses or purse just to see how frustrated I can get. I admit this isn’t often, but it does happen.

  • The worst thing he did was not on purpose. We had gone to L. A. for medical reasons and I’d stopped the mail and paper so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. My husband ended up in the hospital and we stayed 10 days longer than we’d planned so I called and told him to put the mail in a pile on the kitchen table.
  • We came home, I went through the mail and paid the bills. The next month I got dunned for a bill I hadn’t seen the while we were gone. I asked my son about it, and he led me to another stash of mail that hadn’t made it out of the basement and was buried under his clothes. It contained the bill I hadn’t paid.
  • The worst thing he claimed wasn’t his fault at all. He was borrowing my laptop at night when I was using it during the day at the hospital while my husband was hospitalized. One morning I was in a rush to go to the hospital and I could find the laptop in one place, the power cord in another and no sign of the cord. He’d already gone to work and I couldn’t reach him. 
  • I texted him, “where is my mouse?” and left for the hospital. When I got to the hospital I got his text, “It is on top of the cabinet.” Now remember he is 6 feet 2 inches tall and I am five feet 2 inches tall. Would I ever find a mouse on the top of a cabinet? He hasn’t used my laptop since. 

2. My oldest daughter: She comes to my house and cleans and everything left out goes

into a box and into a closet. I usually try to straighten up before she comes because anything that is left out is fair game for her. She just puts it into a box for me to put away “at my leisure.” 

But then I can’t find the box with my purse, keys, glasses, and the important papers that I was working on when she came. She has to come and tell me where the treasure box is hiding out. But I appreciate her help with cleaning more than the hassle of finding the stuff she puts away, so she’s a keeper cleaner.

3. Curse of the Gadianton Robbers: We live in the Last Days, which has been prophesied as a day when wickedness will be prevalent that no one will be able to hold onto their treasures. The Book of Mormon scriptures mention that the people will be so wicked that the land will be cursed so no one can find their treasures: I don’t envision robbers coming to steal my stuff. Neither is the stuff I can’t find real “treasures” except to me, but when I can’t find something important I remember the curse upon the land that makes all things “slippery.”

  • “Helaman 13:34: Behold, we lay a tool here and on the morrow it is gone; and behold, our swords are taken from us in the day we have sought them for battle.”
  •  Book of Mormon 1: 18 “And these Gadianton robbers, who were among the Lamanites, did infest the land, insomuch that the inhabitants thereof began to hide up their treasures in the earth; and they became slippery, because the Lord had cursed the land, that they could not hold them, nor retain them again.”

4. IL Folletto: When we lived in Italy years ago, I studied Italian at the University and through a conversation Italian class taught by the dearest Italian lady, Angela Buvoli. She taught us all about the customs, history, culture, folklore and other things about Italy that we’d never learn in a book. She told us the story of Il Folletto.

  • The dictionary says a folletto is an elfin, elf-like, mischievous, playful, sprightly, genie, gremlin, or pixie.
  •  Wikipedia’s explanation is not as innocent: “The folletto is a legendary creature typical of the folk tradition generally depicted as being a small, joker, agile and elusive, able to fly and become invisible. In folklore European shares similar characteristics with . . . the brownies , the puck, the goblin and leprechaun .Lives in burrows in the woods especially conifers or at the homes of men, courtyards and barns. Almost always comes out only at night to have fun doing mischief to the beasts of the stables and mess up the hair of beautiful women, cluttering agricultural tools and household objects”

4. La Signora Buvoli’s Folletto: Her idea of a folletto was a tiny mischievous elf who lived inside the house and was attracted to shiny objects. He came out at night and would sometimes take with him shiny objects that were lying around the house, especially if they were not put away. However, the folletto was attracted to millet (grain) and if you left a little bowl out of him, he would get busy counting the grains of millet and leave your items alone. 

So you could fool him by putting your things away correctly in their drawers, shelves, etc. all the time, or leave a bowl of millet out for him to count. Then he wouldn’t steal your items away and you’d never find them—or you’d find them in a new place, when he decided to return them.

So, who is the real culprit when I lose something and can’t find it? 

Perhaps all of the above, but I admit I am most likely the biggest culprit for not putting things away where they should have put it away, and for trying to find new ways to organize things. And of course, my poor memory.

My Prayer Was Answered

I started to panic! I couldn’t find my keys! I had looked everywhere, but they were not to be found! It was late—I had to leave for primary. What was I to do? I knelt and prayed fervently.

My three young children

It had been a hectic day in April 1972. I had taken my three small children, Marlowe, four; Athena, two and a half; baby Marc, barely a year, with me to Juarez, Mexico to look for a birthday gift for my mother-in-law. It had been hot and dusty and thoroughly frustrating as it always is shopping with small children. Finally, I’d found a nicely tooled leather purse and we’d gotten back to our El Paso home just before noon. I’d put my packages, purse, and diaper bag down on the couch, went to change Marc’s diaper. Then I quickly made lunch, cleaned the children up, fed them and put them down for naps.

While they had slept, I straightened up the house, then worked on my primary lesson some more. Primary was in the afternoon after school in those days and I taught the CTR class. I just had time to wrap my mother-in-law’s purse up, then get it ready for mailing when the children woke up. I got the children cleaned up and ready for primary. That is when I discovered my keys were missing from my purse.

“Everyone help Mama find her keys,” I asked. Marlowe searched with me, while Athena danced around singing, “Keys, keys, keys, find keys.” Marc tried to imitate her. It became later and later and still I hoped to find the keys.

When I couldn’t find the keys, at last I began to wonder if I should give up and catch a ride with someone, but I’d waited too late. Everyone I tried to call had already left for Primary. I called my husband at work, but his office said he wasn’t there. That was when I really panicked, and I helped the children to kneel, and we prayed again.

After I finished praying, I felt I needed to look inside the package I had wrapped for my mother-in-law. I dismissed the idea as totally crazy—how could it have gotten in there? Athena was now holding Marc’s hands and they were going in a circle with Athena singing, “pray, pray, pray, I help Mama pray.” Marlowe was going around looking under cushions and under the couch. I wanted to cry. I had to get to primary. Who would teach my class? They were short of teachers anyway and Sister Cardon, the president, really needed me to be there.

I closed my eyes, and felt again, I needed to open my mother-in-law’s package. This time, I obeyed, thinking how silly it was. I unwrapped the box, took out the purse, opened the purse, and there inside the new leather purse were my keys.

Athena came running up to me, “My keys!” she said, grabbing the keys. “I need my keys!” She took them over to my purse, opened my purse and stuck them inside my purse and shut it. “I go to primary,” she said, slinging the purse over her shoulder!

My husband and three children 1972

I was flabbergasted! Sometime while I was running around after we got back, Athena had taken my keys out of my purse and put them in the new purse I was getting ready to mail to my mother-in-law. No wonder I couldn’t find them. I quickly retrieved my purse (with the keys inside) from Athena, held it tightly while I helped the children all kneel and thank Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. Then we rushed off to primary.

A Memorable Vacation

A Memorable Vacation

Our family did not often go on vacations when I was a child. We would go down to my grandmother’s home in Monroe Utah, or we would go to family reunions, but that was usually my family’s idea of a family vacation. I never stayed in a motel or hotel until I was an adult. I can’t even recall eating in a restaurant with my family. 

My family in Bryce Canyon 1953

One vacation that stands out in my mind was a trip to Bryce Canyon. We went to Bryce Canyon several times during my childhood and youth.  I don’t think we stayed overnight there; we must have driven over from Monroe, stayed the day and drove back that night. I especially remember a trip to Bryce Canyon in the summer of 1953. My grandmother Hansen was with my parents and six of us children. The youngest was my brother, Will, who had been born in the previous February.

My mother loved to hike and was a very physical, athletic woman. My father worked at Hill Air Force Base and many times in the summer she would have a picnic supper ready when he got home about 3:45 p.m. and we’d go up to Mueller Park and hike until late afternoon and then eat in the park. I have wonderful memories of hiking with her everywhere. We all love to hike to this day.

Grandmother Hansen (left)

My grandmother Hansen was a tall, statuesque woman with a clearly defined idea of what a woman should and should not do. She was a “lady” in every term of the word. Her family had been among the original settlers in the area, and her father had been a leader in the community.  She was a talented dressmaker who could make a chic dress and matching hat from homespun fabric and a vogue pattern, and she had her own store in her later years. She was a strong, opinionated woman who was not afraid to state her views.

My parents

We were all so excited to hike down the canyon, because to us, that was the best part of the trip. Dad was carrying my three-year-old sister, Janet, on his shoulders, and mother was preparing five-month-old Will for the hike. That was when Grandmother Hansen hit the roof! I don’t recall the actual words that were said, but the meaning was clear—ladies don’t climb down mountains with tiny babies. Babies are too fragile to be dragged down trails in the heat and dust! Mother tried to explain that they did it all the time—they loved to do it. Grandmother stood firm; mother would hike down the canyon with Will over her dead body!

I remember watching the altercation with wide frightened eyes. My quiet, soft-spoken mother never got upset. She never argued with anyone over anything. I’d often wished she would stand up to my father, who was very domineering and overbearing, but she never demurred. Yet here she was standing up to Grandmother Hansen.  I looked to my father to see if he would support mother or grandmother; he mumbled something about his mother being right. Mother and grandmother strode angrily went back to the car with tiny baby Will.

I can’t remember much about the hike. I’m sure everyone else had a wonderful time, but all I could think about was what was happening in the car at the rim of the canyon. Was Grandmother yelling at Mother like my father always did when someone disagreed with him? Was Mother crying? Was it hot in the car? Was the baby crying? Finally, we got back to the top and I ran to the car.

Mother and Grandmother sat there silently starring out the front window. Little Will was asleep on the back seat. I was afraid to ask anything at the time, just gave Mother a big hug and told her all about the hike. Later I found out that she and Grandmother had sat there without speaking the whole time we were gone.  I gained a lot of respect for my mother that day!

Independence Day

Last night as I sat on our patio in a comfortable chair watching the Centerville City fireworks display, I wished our grandchildren, who usually spent the night with us were there. But my mind went back through the years, and I remembered past Independence Days.

Independence Day in Washington D.C.

Whenever I think of Independence Day, several images immediately come to mind. I remember being in Washington D.C. with my family, standing across from Constitution Hall watching a reenactment of the Declaration of Independence on the Fourth of July 2006. Then a sudden thunderstorm drenched us, but it could not quench our love for our country.

I recall living in Italy at Caserma Ederle on the Fourth of July 1986. My sister Coleen and her family were there sharing the fun and fireworks with us, along with the whole town, because it was one of the times the base was opened to the Italians to come in and share in our American birthday celebration. As the fireworks lit up the sky, I was so grateful to live in a free country. Although I loved Italy and enjoyed our stay there tremendously, nothing could replace my love for America and the freedom we take for granted.

Coleen’s family

I think of the Bicentennial 1976, at Ft Hood, Texas, where I made colonial costumes for my children, and they marched around the block for Independence Day. We had recently seen the play “1776” in Austin and we had celebrated many of the Bicentennial activities. I felt so proud of my country and so grateful I lived here in America. A few years later a daughter who was not even born in 1976 had the part of Martha Jefferson in the Pioneer Theater (Salt Lake City Equity Theater) run of 1776, one of my favorite musicals.

I think of all the years of “mundane” celebrations—carnivals, 5-k runs, fireworks at the family cabin at Island Park (where we spent many Fourth of Julys), marching in children’s parades, watching one or another of our children marching in the band, or on a float in a parade, at community breakfasts—they all run together like one memory.

Veterans, my husband and brother-in-law Glen Davis, in local parade

However, one memory sticks out like a sore thumb. I am not even sure it was the Fourth of July, but it sums up my feelings about our country. We were living in Italy, and we had gone to another military base. We went as a family to a movie in the evening there. On a military base, they play the “Star Spangled Banner” before each movie, and everyone stands at attention during it. This time however, a bunch of teenagers behind us were goofing off, playing around, talking, and joking during our national anthem. After it was over, my husband Ed turned around and gave them a scolding about how important it was to respect our country by standing at attention during the national anthem, especially when we were in a foreign country.

As Ed talked to them, I thought of all that our soldiers have done through the years since our country won its freedom to preserve our freedom. I think of the years Ed spent in Vietnam and I stayed in Utah by myself and bore and took care of our children. I think of the dangers and hardships he faced, not just in war, but in rotten assignments where no matter how much he hated it, he could not say “I quit.” I thought of him out in the field on maneuvers with the chiggers in Texas; I remembered when he was in Turkey and Greece, not in tourist areas, but in the boonies inspecting missile sites on our children’s birthdays. I thought of him in language school for six months away from family; and I recalled the many times he was on TDY (Temporary Duty Assignment or away from home). And so many other experiences that civilians would never face.

granddaughter saluting the flag

What are we expected as citizens to do? Is flying our flag on the Fourth of July and saluting it as it goes by in the parade enough?

I am not going to make any suggestions on what you should do this Independence Day or all year long to make our country better and to preserve our freedoms. I want each of you to think about it and to decide one thing you can do—then do it!

Indian Paintbrush

Girls Camp 1991

I am angry. Spread out like an old fly on a dissecting table, unable to move up or down. I am furious at the girls, especially Diana. If it were not for them, I would not be stretched out on this rocky cliff, with the rocks sliding beneath me, and the birds circling overhead.

“Are you all right, Beth?” Ann, the other girls’ camp leader, calls as she watches me warily from her more solid perch. The rocks shift beneath me, and I slip, grasping futilely for the weeds ten feet away on the crest of the cliff.

“I’m okay,” I call back as the rocks scrape my leg, burning and stinging like fire ants. What else can I say? She can’t come back for me. I must get out of this myself.

“Do you need help?” she calls again when I do not move. I look up and I see her gauging how she can come back to help me. I think of the ways I could be helped. Maybe a rock climber with ropes and equipment would see me stranded and snatch me from my perilous situation—ha, only in the movies! Maybe a helicopter would come and pull me up away from danger—only in my dreams!

“No, really, I am okay,” I try to reassure her. “I am just resting. Give me a minute to get a better hold.” The rocks shift again, and shower past me. I lose a few more inches. Are the birds circling closer?

I am praying harder than I have in a long time. I am worried about me. I am worried about the girls. I am worried about Diana. I am worried about Ann. How guilty she would feel if I fell and was injured badly!

I think of my friend, Joan, safe back home. She worries about my moods and is always asking probing questions to make sure I’m all right. If I slipped and fell, not just a few inches, but clear down beyond where I can see, would she wonder if it had really been an accident?

The thought of Joan energizes me, and I creep upward towards Ann.

“The girls could not have come this way,” I insist as we try to inch toward the crest. “Someone would have gotten hurt.”

“Could they have gone up the back instead of the front of the mountain?” Ann yells. It is a good question, and I inch sideways toward the beckoning brush. There’s not much vegetation, but I hold tightly onto each weed as though it were a lifeline. I think of Joan again.

“Dear Joan,” I’d write from the hospital, if I fell. “It was not my fault. I did not choose the rocky path. I would have gone up the weedy way. It’s not as pretty, but far safer. I wasn’t doing it for the fun of it. I was trying to save the girls.”  

The thought of the girls sobers me. Are they really okay? Even Diana? Or is she trapped somewhere as I am, struggling to make headway? But there is no one who can rescue her!

We are not even supposed to be on a mountain peak, for heaven’s sake. We were supposed to have hiked to Lake Placid on our all-day Inspirator’s hike. However, we’d missed the lake somehow, and stopped for lunch in a grassy meadow under the mountain peak.

A few girls, I called them the mountain goats because they’d leaped ahead after each rest stop on the trail, were intrigued by the towering peak above us.

“Can we climb it?” they had asked looking at the topographical map. “It’s only 10,228 feet. It must be safe. There’s a jeep trail that goes right to it.”

Finally, the hiking leader had agreed that a small group could climb to the top while the others rested. The mountain goats had quickly disappeared out of sight, but Ann and I, and a few more intrepid girls followed behind them. The whistles we’d brought to communicate were useless as the distance between us widened. I could occasionally see a flash of red, or blue high above, and I’d know their approximate location.

When we’d reached the plateau where the jeep trail ended, the mountain goats were nowhere in sight. Above us was a solid, implacable rock wall, reaching up another 400 feet. No vegetation marred its surface, and no trail disturbed its beauty. Everywhere was rock except at the very top. At the peak, trees stood sentinel, like a line of soldiers guarding the summit.

Finally, Ann spotted the girls. They were almost at the very apex, their bright clothes flashing intermittently through the trees at the rim of the precipice.

“How did they get up there?” one of the girls with us asked. “It’s solid rock!”

“Do you think anyone was hurt?” I replied, wondering how I would explain to upset mothers. I worried again about Diana. That Ann and I would go after them was understood. The rest of the girls decided to wait for us there on the plateau, but Ann and I could not. We were mothers. We were the leaders. We were the responsible ones.

So here I am, trying to follow Ann across a vertical shoal, talking to myself, cursing the girls, whispering to the mothers of the girls in my mind, writing imaginary letters to Joan and conversing audibly to Ann.

Finally, despite all my expectations, I reach Ann on solid, weedy soil, and we hug each other. The immediate danger has been averted, but the girls are still above us somewhere in the mist. I am still angry and worried. My knees are shaky.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go on,” Ann asks me as my breathing steadies.

“Yes, of course. I don’t know if the girls are smart enough to know when to turn back, especially Diana. She might keep going forever, down the other side.”

Diana, is, like all teenagers, a contradiction of nature. Short, thin, with her hair curled meticulously, her makeup applied perfectly, even on an isolated mountain top, she hates to walk to school! Yet, here on this rocky summit, she is one of the mountain goats. She is too young to be wary, too foolish to be careful. I’m sure she thinks injuries only happen on television. I know better. I imagine her slipping on the steep incline and plummeting over the cliff. I imagine trying to explain to my husband where I was when this happened.

As Ann and I scale the hot, dusty, rough terrain, I am so glad that we are on the backside of the cliff instead of the rocky face where we were. I am relieved I survived the rocky face. I feel like an ant rather than a fly—an old, dirty, tired, burdened ant.

The climb is much easier here. It is still steep, but I dig my feet into the dry, barren soil determinedly. Occasionally I find a piece of wild grass that is rooted somehow to bedrock. I grasp on to it for all I’m worth. I am grateful for weeds. I never thought I’d ever feel grateful for weeds, but then I never expected to climb a rocky mountain peak. My hands hurt from holding so hard.              

I can’t stand up. I can’t see the girls. I can see hardly anything above me but the next few feet I must climb. I wonder if there is a top to this mountain. My nose itches. Ann and I don’t talk. We just struggle onward.

When I am wondering if this mountain is nothing but endless ridges stretching to eternity, Ann stops.

“Let’s rest and see how far we’ve come,” she suggests.

I turn around to look; it’s scary. It’s beautiful below and we can see for miles and miles. I wish I could see above me, rather than below. Sweat is dripping down my face. My scraped leg hurts.

“Do you think they are really okay?” I finally ask Ann.

“I’m sure they are, or someone would have come down for help,” she replies. Somehow her words are not reassuring.

A shout disturbs our tete a tète.

“Hey, guys, the summit is neat. You really ought to see it!” A girl stands high above us. The sun is behind her, and I can’t see who she is. Except that she’s not Diana.

Suddenly I am no longer tired, but full of fire and energy.

“Don’t any of you move,” I yell, standing. “Don’t go up. Don’t go down. Stay right where you are, even if I can’t see you!” I don’t know whether they can hear me, but Ann is impressed.

“How many kids did you say you had?” she asks. “You sound like you could command an army.”

“I just don’t want them going anywhere until I can get to them!” I say, but I doubt she hears me. I’m already charging up the mountain.

Only a few feet up, the ground levels out a bit, and there the girls are, laughing and ready to dance down the mountain.

“Oh, Mom, it’s so neat!” Diana is running towards me. (Doesn’t she know how dangerous running down an incline can be?) “It’s not much further. It was well worth the climb.”

“Don’t you know how worried I’ve been,” I cry as I hug her.

“But I’ve been fine.” She seems uncomfortable with my concern. “Just wait until you see the top!”

“Well, I don’t know,” I say. I haven’t climbed so high for the view. “How much further is it?”

“It’s just over that ridge. Come on, Mom. You can’t come this far without going the last little way.”

“She’s right, you know,” Ann laughs. “We can’t turn back so close to our goal.”

“I’ll wait here for you, Mom,” Diana says.

“You’ll all wait for us here,” I yell to the rapidly dispersing girls. “Did you hear me?” they slowly turn around. Some seem poised to vault away out of my sight, but they come back.

“Now listen up! Ann and I are going to the top. And you girls are waiting right here until we get back!!!!! Do you hear! Climbing downhill is more dangerous than up! We will hold hands going down. We will make a chain.”

“But we haven’t had any trouble,” one of the older girls insists.

“I don’t care. You will wait here! Understood?” I glare at each one until they nod.

It is beautiful at the top, I realize. I look at the immense vista laid out below us. Ann goes to the very edge to wave at those who stayed below at the plateau where the jeep trail ended. I stay a safe distance away from the edge, but I can see the ant-like creatures so far below. I wonder if they can see us. My back itches.

I notice a small Indian Paintbrush plant, brilliantly red as it valiantly hangs over the edge of the precipice. I am awed that it can grow in so harsh and alien a climate. It seems such a veritable contradiction to the barren, rocky soil. It is beautiful.

I look at Diana below; her hair brightened by the sun looks reddish from my perspective. Diana is like that paintbrush. Then the thought strikes me that maybe I am, too.

“Your Son Needs You”

Fay Hansen died on a warm June night in 1980.  He was recovering from his second coronary bypass when he had a fatal reaction to the morphine administered to him for pain.  He felt his heart go wild, then collapse in on itself.  One minute he was struggling vainly to quiet his racing heart, panicked and afraid; the next moment, overwhelming peace and relief wiped away the terror. One minute doctors and nurses were fussing and fretting, trying to stabilize him; the next, the room was full of old friends and relatives in white.

Fay Hansen

Fay saw his father first, smiling in the warm, loving way he always had. Fay realized then that he had died in the frantic moments that his heart was out of control, because his father had departed life nearly a half century before.

Fay’s father, William Hansen

“You’ve come for me,” Fay thought as he recognized familiar faces of friends and family who had died many years before. “I am through with this life.”  It was an overwhelming peace that enveloped Fay, a wonderful relief from the pain that was his constant companion.

“Are you ready to go?” Fay’s father asked him.

The thought of leaving the pain, the struggles behind seemed so inviting that Fay wanted with all his heart to say “Yes.” But something nagged at him. There was something that was not yet done.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Fay’s father asked gently. Fleeting thoughts of all seven of his children raced through his mind.  Six were married with families of their own. His youngest daughter, Ann, although unmarried, was doing well and was active in the Church.

With instant clarity the nagging feeling of what was left undone overwhelmed Fay. If he left the earth at this moment, what would happen to his youngest son, Will?  This son had been given the name of his grandfather, the big, kindly man standing before Fay. Although Will was a good man, he had become estranged in a subtle way from the rest of the family.

“Will has chosen to shut us out,” Fay told his father. “I can’t do any more to reach him.” Fay looked in vain among the crowd for the wife who had died nearly twenty years before. He could see old friends from half a century before, his brother, his cousin. However, he could not see his first wife among the individuals in white.

“Your son needs you,” Fay’s father gently reminded him. 

Fay thought of his youngest son, Will, who was so like the grandfather whom he had been named after.  He was kind, thoughtful, reserved, and very friendly. Somehow he’d drifted away from the family, and did not feel an integral part anymore.  There was no outright break from the family, but ever since Fay had married (a second time) to Donna, who had eight children of her own, Will had gone his own way.

“Are you really ready to leave this earth?” Fay’s father asked him, his eyes searing Fay to the soul. “Are you ready to leave things as they are at this moment?”  As much as Fay wanted to shrug off the pain, sorrow, and struggles that had been his life, he knew that he’d be leaving work undone. And Fay was not one to shirk away from duty.

“But what can I do to unite my family?” Fay asked. “What more can I do that I have not already done?” Fay’s thoughts bubbled up like a pot boiling over, but as they struck the tall man facing him, they fizzled and evaporated.  Would Fay be happy if he left things as they were that day? No. He knew—as tempting as the prospect appeared—it wasn’t right.

“Can I have more time?  Can’t I try again to find the way to strengthen my family?” the thoughts came unbidden to Fay’s mind as his father smiled back at him with a joy that filled the room. Suddenly the room full of people dressed in white vanished.

Overwhelming pain enveloped Fay like a damp, heavy cloth, smothering the peace he’d felt so recently.  Voices and noises scattered the lingering remnants.

“I have a heartbeat,” a woman’s voice cried triumphantly.

Fay tried in vain to capture again the fleeting image of his father smiling in the old familiar way, but it was gone.

“Fay, you old rascal,” he recognized the intensive care doctor calling to him from afar. “You sure gave us a good scare that time.”  Reluctantly Fay opened his eyes to the familiar hospital room. 

“We almost lost you that time,” the nurse said, smiling, her stethoscope pressed against his aching chest.  “Your heart became arrhythmic and went out of control.  But you’re back.”

The constant pain shrouded Fay until he prayed for the oblivion of sleep. But he couldn’t lose the urgency that there was something important he needed to do.  Something he couldn’t forget again.  Several times during the recovery which had been only temporarily halted by his anaphylactic reaction to the morphine, Fay almost forgot what he still had to do.  Several times when he felt it had slipped away from him, he’d open his eyes and see two white figures standing by the window. They would smile at him, and again he would feel their love reach across the room to him. He would then remember his son, Will, and know that he, too, must reach out in love to him.

When his wife, Donna, arrived and heard about the incident wherein Fay had died, she clucked over him like a mother hen. Fay then shared with her what had happened to him during the frantic few minutes he had been clinically “dead.”

“There is something important I need to do,” Fay explained. “We haven’t been all together as a family for years. It is important that we do so.”  Two months later Fay’s seven children and their families gathered together in Mueller Park for a short reunion. Will and Lois laughed with the others and the family drew closer than they had for a long time.

Hansen Family 1980

Surprisingly, that was not the end of the story. There was another chapter that did not come out until 12 years later at another family reunion—this one at Fish Lake in Southern Utah. At a family testimony meeting Fay and Donna testified of our ancestors love for all the family. The story was told of the night Grandpa William Hansen came and reminded Fay that his “son” that needed him.

Fish Lake Reunion 1992

Then Dale, (Donna’s youngest son) asked if he could tell his side of the same story. Tears shown in his eyes as he explained that at the time of Fay’s “death,” Dale was serving a mission in Argentina. Donna’s younger children had accepted Fay with open hearts when he had married her. Surprisingly, Dale had grown closer to Fay than to his own father. When Dale left on his mission, he had been concerned about Fay’s health, which wasn’t very good. Donna had promised to keep him informed of any problems. Soon afterwards, Fay underwent his first coronary by-pass, and Donna had sent a telegram to Dale. The message about Fay’s surgery and recovery took so long to reach Dale that when the second coronary by-pass was scheduled; Donna decided not to worry him until it was all over.

Dale Easton

Dale, however, didn’t need a letter or telegram to know that Fay was very ill and that he might die. One day in June 1980, Dale had awoke from a vivid dream wherein he saw saw Jenny, Fay’s deceased first wife, and others waiting to welcome Fay into the spirit world. Dale recognized Jenny though he had never met her in this life, and knew that she was eagerly awaiting Fay’s arrival.

The fear that Fay would die upset Dale so much that he asked his companion to join him in a special fast and prayer. Dale pleaded with the Lord to spare Fay. He explained that he had just learned to appreciate Fay as the father he’d never had before then. He cried that he still had many activities—fishing, hunting—that he wanted to do with Fay. During a long, anxious day Dale and his companion worried and prayed. That night Dale received a feeling that the Lord had heard his plea and that Fay would be spared.

It was very late that evening, (not weeks later, as before) when Dale received a telegram that told him that Fay had had another coronary surgery. Donna explained that although there had been some problems, Fay was recovering. Dale was never told that Fay had died after the surgery, or that he had experienced a visit from his father while he was clinically dead.

On that starlit night around a campfire in 1992, tears flowed as Dale recalled the experience he had endured at the time of Fay’s “death.” He shared his immense feeling of gratitude that his prayer had been answered; that Fay had been spared because “his son” needed him.

Which son needed Fay that night when his heart stopped? Perhaps both. Only Fay’s father knows—and he can’t tell us.