At Home in Bielefeld

Dear Family,

I had something really cool happen the other day! I was just looking at a map of our area here in Bielefeld when I discovered something really interesting. I saw a little city called Blomberg which is out in the edge of our ward boundaries here when I though "wait a minute! we have ancestors called Von Blomberg." I was wondering if they came from there, so I was looking at familysearch this morning and saw that some of the Von Blombergs are from Magdeburg (a little farther away from here), but others of them are from Minden, which is just up the river from us. We actually go to Minden every week for our district meetings. Then I found a couple of them who are from a town called Detmold, which is in our area, and we have been there a couple of times! Anyway, I

didn´t find anyone from Blomberg, but what was just as good was finding people from other places right near here. That was a way cool feeling! You are the best. I love you!

LOVE,

Lizzy

Welcome!

Congratulations to Mari and John!

Wedding date: August 21st, 2010

Berkeley, California

Welcome to our family, John. We can't wait to meet you!

Mission: Hamburg, Germany

I'm assigned to the Germany Hamburg Mission! I go to the Provo MTC on March 10th and then on to Germany about eight weeks later. I'm really excited! I would love to hear from you when I'm in Germany! I will return home sometime in fall 2011.

If I'm not mistaken, Grandpa Calder spent part of his mission in Germany, as did Great Great Grandfather Eyring. Others of our ancestors did too, I think.

This year I have been memorizing the Articles of Faith so that I can earn my Faith in God Award. In the third Article of Faith, it states, “We believe that through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel.” I love this principle.

This means that when I do something wrong, the things I did can be forgiven and forgotten. It means that if I make a mistake and fight with my brother over whether to play Monopoly or Sorry or who gets to sit in the front seat of the car, I can be forgiven. It means that my Mom and Dad, who are so good at listening to me, fixing my problems and helping me be successful in my goals, will be able to continue doing this when we live together after this life. Most importantly it means that, once again, I will be able to live with my Father in Heaven, who knows me better than anyone and loves me.

Ever since my mom was little she knew that she would name her first daughter after my great-grandmother, Rose Calder. I was lucky enough to be that first daughter and receive the name Emilie Rose. I remember visiting my Grandma Rose often. I knew that my Grandma had lived an amazing life. She was born on the run from the Mexican Revolutionaries, she received her masters from Columbia and PhD. from Berkley in the 1930’s when women simply didn’t do such things, she raised her three small children in Burma and Ethiopia while she and her husband were professors there and she traveled to over 150 countries in her life time. However, it wasn’t these things that she talked about when we came to visit. She wanted to know exactly how each one of us were doing in school, with friends and at church. She would ask us about which talents we were working on and then insist that she push her walker, which was very painful for her, into the living room so that she could see us play our latest piano piece, even though she could have heard it from her chair in the family room. She would then praise us up and down, and send us out the door with a Nestle Crunch bar to eat on the way home. I thought that my Grandma would be waiting for us to come visit her forever, but last May, at age 96, she suddenly died. If I thought that this was the end of my time with my Grandma Rose, I don’t know how I would be able to accept her death. I love her so much.

2000 years ago, when Christ came to the earth, he preached his gospel, established his church and preformed miracles. However, his main mission was to take on the sins of the world and be physically sacrificed so that each one of us could have the chance to be spiritually clean enough to live with our Father in Heaven again. In John 3:16 it says, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believieth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” I look forward to the time that I can live together with my grandma again along with the rest of my family in the presence of our Father in Heaven. I am so grateful that Heavenly Father has a plan for all of us to return to him and for Christ’s willingness to be sacrificed for us. I say this in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Emilie Ebert

Sacrament Meeting Talk

November 15, 2009

Not So Unsolved Mysteries: The Case of Lucky #14

Many of you may recall there being much ado about nothing over the number 14 in the Calder family earlier this year. For those who do not, I offer a quick refresher course:

In May there was a beautifully written obituary for Grandma Calder in which the closing lines "...eleven grandchildren and fourteen current and prospective great-grandchildren" caused much commotion. Actually, I believe it was the Spendlove's who first spotted the supposed typographical error and set about to unravel the mystery. While I'm certain most of you have already solved this mystery on your own, I still felt obliged to openly crack the case and share with you a shameful little story.

I received a phone call from my dear husband, Grant, one day asking if it might be all right to include the prospective 14th grandchild in Grandma’s obituary. Thinking this was our own little secret that had not been shared, I inquired as to how anyone might know about it. He sheepishly replied that he did not know how his father, Scott, had figured it out, but he did remember a late night conversation during which he was quite certain his father might have received divine inspiration regarding #14. “Hmmm”, I said, “Scott Calder must be a very righteous man. Under such a circumstance, I don’t see how it would be possible not to include this information.” Really what the turning wheels in my head were telling me was that there was no way anyone would actually pick up on such an inconsequential little thing anyway. There were many more wonderful and magnificent things about Grandma Calder that would surely overshadow a measly little thing such as the phrase “fourteen current and prospective great-grandchildren”, and didn’t people stop counting after ten great-grandchildren anyway?

Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. Suddenly #14 became the focus of conversations and inquisitions from Johnny and Jenny. Then it was coming from Camille. And Ryan. And Lizzy. And David. Public declarations that the bearer of lucky #14 must make herself known were coming rapid fire from all directions. I did the only thing I knew how to --- lie! Grant and I told more bold-faced false truths that week than we’d care to admit. Our tactics seemed to work, but I knew that the Spendloves would not give up so easily. Steadfastly, I acted uninterested and nonchalantly dismissed the #14 hullabaloo. Phrases like “Must have been a typo”, or “Hmmm, I never even noticed such a tiny insignificant detail”, and “Maybe someone needs to re-take Math 101” came flying out of my mouth so quickly I simply couldn’t stop them. And so the week ended with a wonderful dinner at the cultural hall and the #14 hubbub slowly fading as we all went back to our daily routines.

Slowly fading for everyone but me. I am indeed the bearer of lucky #14 and have not been slowly fading, but rather rapidly growing in the midsection. So let this to be a public acknowledgement of our tall tales and untruths, as we humbly ask for your forgiveness. We simply didn’t want to shift the focus of the weeks events away from what we thought they should be (and were incredibly under prepared for Johnny and Jenny --- never underestimate their persistence). Along with that, Grant and I also offer a public promise that we solemnly swear we will not teach our daughter such distasteful two-faced habits as those we engaged in that week.

On a lighter note, if you’re curious what sort of effect this little one has had on our lives, please feel free to take a gander at this post about Grant and his little lady.

From Juarez to El Paso

 

Recently, after naming our baby after Caroline Romney Eyring, Grandma's mother, I was looking for photos of Caroline on line. I found this photo of Caroline as a young girl (standing in the back) and of Grandma's grandmother, Catherine Cottom Romney. I also came across the following memoir written by Camilla Kimball, Grandma's sister, of their forced exodus from their home in Mexico by the Mexican Revolutionaries. I had heard Grandma tell bits and pieces of this family event. I remember Grandma mentioning that her family had left canned fruit under the porch and that they had fled to a refugee camp. When I came across Camilla's writings, I found it fascinating to compare what I remembered Grandma telling me with this documented history. I thought that some of you may find this interesting as well, especially if you had heard Grandma tell of this event. Camilla mentions that her mother is expecting a baby. Grandma is this baby that her mother is carrying.

In July 1912 Salazar demanded that the colonists give up their arms. They were unwilling to leave their families wholly unprotected, so the stake president, my uncle Junius Romney, decided that the women and children should move temporarily to the United States for safety.

That summer we had raised lots of blackberries. On Saturday Mother, with our help canned one hundred quarts of berries. That evening Father came home with word that our guns were to be delivered up to the rebels at the bandstand on Sunday and that the stake leaders had decided we should leave for El Paso immediately. He took up the porch floor and we stored the newly bottled berries underneath, thinking we would soon return to reclaim them. We hid valuables in all the unlikely places we could think of.

We were allowed to take just one trunk of clothes for Father's family of thirteen. I wanted so much to put in my doll and some other treasures, but there was no room. I had always been a great collector and had kept all my school papers, letters, toys -- everything I had ever owned; now I had to leave them all, never to see them again.

In the morning Father drove us to Pearson in the white-topped buggy. This railroad station was about eight miles from Juárez. There were dozens of buggies and wagons and crowds of refugees waiting for the train to carry us to the safety of the United States. Grandmother Eyring had been robbed of forty dollars that morning by a rebel who invaded her house and demanded her money. A troop of rebels on horseback with guns and bayonets was drawn up in formation at the train station. As one old lady walked by, a soldier hooked his rifle through her handbag and took possession of it. She dared not protest, but went on to the train. A drunken man rode his horse at my sister Isabel, just three, and nearly trampled her, laughing at her fright.

When the last wagon had unloaded on the depot platform at Pearson, several hundred women, children, and elderly persons, assisted by a few able-bodied men, were ready to take the train for El Paso. At Dublán more people crowded on, making about one thousand refugees packed onto one train. Our family was in a third-class car with long, hard benches running lengthwise of the cars and children and baggage piled on top of one another. Buggies and wagons were left standing empty at the station. When passenger cars filled up, boxcars and even a few cattle cars were attached. Some cars were so crowded that even standing room was a premium. We all suffered intensely as the delayed train finally moved off in the stifling July heat.

The trip to the border at El Paso was only about 150 miles, but the train went at a snail's pace and stopped every few miles. We were in terror all the time lest the rebels waylay us. We traveled all day and all night. Finally, just as dawn was breaking, we crawled slowly across the Rio Grande and were greeted by the sight of the Stars and Stripes. A great shout went up from all the refugees. . . . After a harrowing experience we felt safe once more.

The kind people of El Paso met us at the depot and took us in automobiles (only the second time I'd ridden in one) out to a big lumberyard, where they improvised shelter for the refugees. Hundreds had already arrived before us and hundreds were yet to come. They put us into a huge corral with dust a foot deep, flies swarming, noisy, stinking, and crowded with a mass of humanity. It was enough to make the stoutest heart sink. Those in charge tried to arrange a stall for each family, and we piled in for the night, hanging up blankets in an attempt at a little privacy. During that night five babies were born in these rude shelters.

We felt humiliated as newspaper photographers and reporters recorded our pitiful dependence and as the curious townspeople gawked and pointed at us, as they would animals in a zoo.

Mother had a little money, so the next day she scurried around to find us lodgings that were a little more private. She was expecting her ninth child in a few months. She finally took one room in a small hotel for the fourteen of us. . . . There was just room to spread quilts all over the floor, and we managed to be one deep at least until we were asleep. Some of us slept under Grandma's bed. In this room we ate our meals as well as slept. In the morning I took the children out to play in the fresh air.

We expected Father would come out of Mexico at any time to get us, so we stayed there about a week. We then moved to a tenement way down on Talles Street near the Rio Grande. There we had two rooms and at least some fresh air and a place to get outdoors. Families in six or eight apartments shared one kitchen, so the women took turns cooking for the crowd. The government sent men around every morning with daily rations. They brought white baker's bread, puffed wheat and rice, milk, and canned salmon.

Grandma's father tried to return to Mexico to retrieve some of their belongings and livestock, but was unable to do so. They were unable to regain the wealth that they lost due to this ordeal.

Searching for Culture in SLC

So why would anyone move home to SLC from New York, Boston, Seattle, or Chicago? Our museums are dinky, compared to the Met and Guggenheim. We have no Freedom Trail, Boston Pops, or JFK Library. Our Farmers Market lacks the fish throwers, brass pig, dozen flower stalls, and piroshkis of Pike Place Market. And the Church Office Building and Federal Heights can't compare, for architectural splendor, with the early 1900s skyscrapers of Louis Sullivan or Frank Lloyd Wright's homes in Chicago.

But SLC does have some culture. Dave and I went searching for it this week. We started with three art films at our seedy but beloved Broadway Theater.Our favorite was "Departures," a Japanese film which won the 2009 Academy Award for Best Foreign Film. The plot--young man learns to love his job tucking dead people into caskets--doesn't do it justice.We also loved "Whatever Works," Woody Allen's witty homage to accepting diversity in our relationships. As Dave and I welcome people of increasingly diverse nationalities, ages, and sexual preferences into our circle of friends, we identify with that film!

And we were fascinated by "The Hurt Locker," an action film about defusing bombs in Iraq which was also a subtle character study.Next stop was the Farmer's Market at Pioneer Park. The Market has morphed over the years, from just sellers of produce to entertainers and a weekly arts fair. I stopped by a one-man band, by a stall selling bonsai trees, by Utah's own Nutty Guys, and I finally succumbed at Great Basin Shrubs, buying 15 perennials bearing purple flowers for our backyard.

The Farmer's Market is the place to see and be seen, not just for people, but for dogs, too!

What about SLC museums? I lingered at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts for its special exhibit on Native American (Indian) art.It was beautifully presented with "hands on" activities like samples of buckskin and rawhide to finger, as well as signs describing the objects' artistic and cultural significance.
The Museum, skimpy by big city standards, still had many items in its regular collection to ponder.The trick is to appreciate what's there, rather than what's not. There were even a few paintings by Old Masters (Foschi, if not Raphael)

and even one painting by John Copley, that icon of Boston colonial painters.

Saturday evening, Dave and I enjoyed the Salt Lake Jazz Festival, just one of the many music festivals in SLC and at the ski resorts this summer.

We listened to a saxophonist and torch singer,

and to a big band.

As I ran errands Saturday, I noticed other SLC bits of culture, such as the Gilded Age lobby of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building

and the glowing fresh flowers in downtown parks and along the streets.

I even noted that the Energy Solutions Center, which brings not only the JAZZ but big name national entertainers to SLC, has been spruced up with sculptures outside its doors!

In our continuing search for culture, Dave and I attended the Tabernacle Choir broadcast on Sunday morning.

We lingered afterwards at the Church art exhibition displayed in the halls of the Conference Center. The styles and media of the works were as diverse as those of the global Church. There were traditional depictions of Christ and his apostles,

a brilliant tapestry expressing the glory of the heavens,

religious paintings from Italy and Eastern Europe created in the style of icons,

and even a Cubist Hong Kong temple!

Every great city has diverse ethnic neighborhoods and great restaurants. Dave and I didn't visit The New Yorker, Happy Sumo, or even Market Street Broiler this weekend, but I did tempt Jonny and Jenny with a fejoida dinner, to introduce Jenny to Brazilian cooking and to remind Jonny of his mission in Brazil. I passed Sudanese and Ethiopian restaurants on Redwood Road Saturday afternoon, as I sought my goal--the Brazilian grocery/cafe where I could buy the essential meats for fejoida--linguisa and carne seca. The chef at the cafe showed me his own kettle of fejoida and said my dish would be even better if I stopped at SuperSavers for pig feet and pig ears.

My fejoida was fabulous, even without pig ears.

Dave and I weren't able to fit in performances of Ballet West, the Utah Symphony, Pioneer Memorial Theater, or Ririe-Woodbury Dance Company last weekend, but we still found enough nuggets of culture, way out here in the provinces, to keep us challenged and amused until we can make it back to one of America's greater cities. And, of course, one aspect of culture is good food with good talk and good friends.