Heritage

I love living back where the 24th of July is a thing.

And it's a thing here.

Yesterday I made the mistake of asking the school secretary if I could bring something to her today.  She scoffed and said, "It'll be the 24th, so...no."

The custodian shook his head at my folly.

On Sunday three men in our ward with amazing voices sang Come Come Ye Saints in church.  They were accompanied by another man on the harmonica.  It was spectacular and I maybe ugly cried.

I was thinking about my pioneer heritage and the names I've heard stories about all my life were rolling around in my head.  I was thinking about their strength and sacrifice and willingness to obey.  They inspire me and make me grateful.  I look out over the valley that will have fireworks light up the sky tonight and wonder what they would think if they could see it.

I would like to tell them that you can see multiple temples from my house.

I would like to tell them that I can read stories about them and see their pictures and see my relationship to them instantly with the click of a few keys on my computer.

I would like to tell them that I carry their stories around with me not just on my phone, but in my heart too.

I remember Henrietta who would cry for a crust of bread as a five year old when she crossed the plains.  I remember strong Ellen who attracted the gaze of her husband while hefting sacks of grain.  I remember Margaret who gave birth nine days after arriving in the Salt Lake Valley.

Their blood is in my veins.

I love pausing today to remember them and appreciate what they did for me.

It occurs to me that I haven't done a great job instilling the appreciation for pioneer ancestry in our children.  For one thing, the covered wagons is only part of their story and it's all of mine.  For another thing, they didn't grow up in the Great Basin like I did.

Really, though.  I need to do better.

Sunday I tried to remedy the situation and with Desi visiting, we talked about some family stories.  Braeden found a story about Elizabeth Melvina Richardson who is my third great grandmother.  Desi read it aloud to us.

Don't be fooled by that calm gentle expression.  That woman was as tough as nails.  At sixteen she married a widower who had six children.  Once when a mob attacked them, she hid money in a bucket of nails and hid colt pistols under her dress.  She was the only one in her family who went West.  On that journey she outran some Indian warriors who had surrounded her carriage.

I honor her today and all the rest.

I love these stories.  They are my touchstones.  They give me something to aspire to.  They help bolster me for my own scary nemeses.