Last week we marked the 100th birthday of my father-in-law, Verle. He passed from this place five years ago, in fact, the day after his 95th birthday, so it’s easy to keep track. By his own admission, he grew up in a somewhat idyllic situation, surrounded by a multi-generational family, farm country life, aunts and uncles from both sides of the family doting on him, cousins for his best friends, plenty to eat and much to do and explore in his small yet religious central Utah community.

As his family migrated to the bigger city for opportunities and work, he did his best to blend in with his new surroundings and culture, but he always called Venice “down home,” even as a grown adult. This beginning set him up to confidently face a long life of challenge and trial, greased the gears of his ingenuity, taught him the power behind a smile and a sunny disposition, and gave him a chance to exercise integrity.  Like most kids, he created his own learning experiences by following his curiosity and innocence, and he witnessed first hand the sorrow and despair of loving parents trying to keep a growing family afloat during those depressive years.

At age 19 he planned to serve a mission for his church, which created nearly an insurmountable financial challenge for the family. but with faith and optimism, he lined up wonderful speakers (Philo T. Farnsworth was one of them) and musical entertainment for his missionary farewell in hopes to bring in a large audience with big hearts and generous donations supplementing his meager funds. He turned out to be the show stopper by producing a bloody nose when his turn came to stand at the pulpit.

Going to Denmark in the fall of 1938 was risky business with the world affairs in such turmoil, and after a partial mission there, he and all his fellow companions were reassigned to “safer” places; he went to the Southern States. The names of the rural towns he frequented are listed in his personal history: Townley, Double Springs, Sulligent, Mud Creek, Holly Springs, Decaur, Athens, Elkmont, Leeds, Sneed, Sylacauga, McCalla, Bessemer, Greenpond, Atalla, Anniston, Cherokee, Cullman, Arkadelphia, Tusculoosa, Hamilton, and Red Bay. He collected people–he loved them–and remembered their names, too: Roberts, Evans, Browns, Griffens, Locks, Gaylors, Silveys, Randalls, Moores, Smiths, Ganns, Mitchells, Eaves, Youngs, Hicks, Vinning, Brockners, Sanders, Ackers, and Largens. That was his mission, but throughout his life he continued gathering people, knew their family members and stories, and carried them with him.

He met and married a Southern belle, and although not wealthy, she was a treasure and true to her well-mannered and principled upbringing. After a few short months, he went off to war in Germany, given the incredibly impossible job of switching from saving souls to destroying lives. He quickly became a leader and did the task he was charged with, and in the process earned medals (for which he never comfortably accepted any adulation) and headed up the force which freed Buchenwald concentration camp (which he couldn’t talk about for over 50 years) and then rode a ship back to the U.S., welcomed into the New York harbor by Lady Liberty (an experience he never related without choking in his voice and tears).

He put those three years behind him and jumped into life, built a home, raised a family of ten children (his own basketball team plus subs and a couple of cheerleaders). He joined a family business with his dad and brothers laying brick, creating work opportunities for his own children. He loved being involved in his community and found ways to serve in his church. He and his wife also piloted a Cub scout program, he coached little league teams, and they raised animals and a huge garden on an acre plus behind his home. Then as the kids started leaving, he and his wife collected strays, listened to their stories, bound up their wounds. Gladys fed them and Verle employed them, and gently sent them on their way when their visitors were once again grounded.

Soon a second family of sorts began to form as everyone married and produced the best crop of all, grandkids.  The history goes on and on. . .

How do I know these few details, plus endless others? Verle wrote down his history. He put in little bits of interesting information everywhere, just like in life; he was a collector: rocks from the Hebron Brook in Israel, notated with black permanent marker, dated maps from Germany that directed him and his tank destroyer crew across the foreign terrain, marbles made from Redmond clay originating from his youth, feathery cotton still in the dried husk from a South Carolina field–you name it, he had some meaningful artifact holding a portion of his collective memory of life experiences, 95 years’ worth.

In the last few weeks of his life, he was stuck in his bed, but, still smiling and positive, he embellished each day with a recitation of the names of all of his descendants: kids, married-ins, grandkids, great-grands, pushing the numbers up to and past 125 before his death.

Happy Birthday, Verle. Thank you for including me in your collection.

(photo by Tiffany Breinholt)