Tribute to a Modern Pioneer

A few weeks ago, my mom was asked to represent her local chapter of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers.  Women in this organization are descendants of the first members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (also known as Mormons) who settled Utah territory in the nineteenth century.  They currently work to preserve histories, artifacts and pioneer traditions.

As part of this honor, my mom requested that I write and present a short history during a program on Pioneer Day in my hometown.  This state holiday commemorates the arrival of the first Mormon pioneers in the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. 

I enjoyed hearing my mom share several stories and feel that I know her a little better as a person.

After reading this sketch of her life, you might appreciate her more too.

Tribute for Charlene Staheli

 July 24, 2012

My mom and I waving at hometown crowds during the parade.
My 87-year-old dad (right) felt well enough that day to drive
the horses.

Charlene Yvonne Peacock Staheli was born into the family of Byron and Leona Peacock on Feb. 22, 1935 in Emery, Utah. The youngest of six children, she often wished her parents had named her Georgia instead, since she shared a birthday with George Washington.

In spite of a girlish distaste for her given name, Charlene appreciated her family with its rich pioneer heritage. Her Danish and English ancestors had settled Sanpete County, establishing homes and proving their faith through difficult times. Carrying on with their values, Charlene and her siblings worked together on their father's farm, performing additional chores in his dairy and beekeeping business. Charlene also learned homemaking skills, but she always preferred to drive a truck or tractor for her dad out in the fields.

News of the Pearl Harbor attack shocked the nation in 1941. Although she was only six years old, Charlene felt and witnessed some effects of World War II on her small hometown. Three older brothers enlisted in the armed forces, serving on both the Pacific and European fronts. Her older sister moved to  California where jobs were plentiful. This left only Charlene and her brother Perry at home to help their parents the best that they could. In their spare time, they joined other school-children who gathered scrap metal that was sent to munitions factories and milk weed pods with silky threads that were used to make parachutes. They took great pride in their volunteer efforts.

The strain and uncertainty took a toll on their family.  Still, their workload was lightened by plenty of homespun fun. Like pioneer children from the past, Charlene enjoyed Easter picnics at the nearby cliffs and winter sledding down chalk hills. She also viewed herself as an expert in aquatic technique because she could always touch the bottom while “swimming” in the irrigation canal.

When her father served as bishop of the Emery ward*, Charlene rang the church bell before meetings every Sunday. This ritual marked each passing week until the war ended and her brothers came home.  For a few more years, life settled into a more predictable routine.

As Charlene prepared for her senior year in high school, her parents decided to move to Oregon. They agreed to let her move in with relatives in Emery so that she could serve as yearbook editor and graduate with lifelong friends.

A summertime visit to a small community in southern Utah changed most of her plans. While staying with her brother Carlyle Peacock and his wife Elsie, Charlene made new friends and decided to transfer to the local high school. Undeterred by her status as a new girl in town, Charlene met with the principal and volunteered to serve as editor if he would allow a yearbook to be published every year. He agreed. She fulfilled her end of the bargain with characteristic flair, but her life soon took another unexpected turn.

Weeks before that fateful Halloween dance, Elsie Peacock told Stan Staheli, a local bachelor, that her “cute little niece” had come to live with them. But she hastened to add that Charlene was much too young for him. Still, he felt compelled to ask this attractive young lady for a dance. Something magical happened as they twirled across the wooden gym floor; before the night was over, he proposed.

After giving the matter some thought and prayer, Charlene consented. She and Stan were married on March 21, 1953 in the St. George temple. A short time later, she was honored as valedictorian at her high school graduation.

True to the spirit of her pioneer ancestors, Charlene continued learning and pushing forward through the joys and trials of lovingly raising a large family. Creative and resourceful, she often altered or sewed clothes for us girls and others. She could also share decades of experience on thrifting, crafting, gardening, and home decorating on blogs and that newest craze called Pinterest. She was a women ahead of her time. And who could forget her beautiful quilts? Each one is a labor of love that will be treasured by her children, grandchildren and a new generation of great-grandchildren.

In their later years, Charlene and Stan were thrilled to serve three missions** at Martin's Cove in central Wyoming. They cherished these opportunities to walk in the footsteps of valiant pioneers who sacrificed everything for their testimonies of the gospel of Jesus Christ. More importantly, they opened

their hearts to new friends and thousands of visitors—especially the youth—who traveled long distances to feel the spirit of that sacred place. As Stan and Charlene shared stories of the Willie and Martin handcart companies, downcast people felt new hope to face their own trials. Countless lives have changed.

Mom and all four of us sisters riding in a surrey with
a fringe on the top!

Today we pay tribute to our mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, neighbor, and friend. She would never presume to stand on the same level as the pioneer women whom she loves and admires, but her faith, service, and dedication surely equal theirs. Thank you for devoting your life to nurturing each member of our family, for teaching us by example to cherish our heritage and our present relationships even as we reach out to others as we journey through life. Charlene Staheli is truly a modern-day pioneer. 

*The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is composed of thousands of local units called wards. Each ward is led by a bishop who supports himself and his family while he serves his congregation for several years without additional pay.

**In our church, thousands of young people and senior couples volunteer to serve full-time missions.  Young men and women usually concentrate on spreading a message of Jesus Christ and what we believe to be his restored gospel.  Senior couples serve in various ways, including work in our temples, teaching in church-supported schools, and acting as tour guides at historical sites that are significant to our religion.

Night at the Library

She sprang to life as everything I wasn't in seventh grade: slender, vivacious, with delicate features, warm brown eyes, and abundant auburn curls. Gracefully drifting through aristocratic circles in nineteenth-century Austria, my fictional heroine wore lovely gowns, danced to Strauss waltzes, and won the heart of a handsome hero when they met on a dark and stormy night.

He had a thing for brunettes.

My first attempt at writing a novel was shamelessly melodramatic, but I'd just read Gone With the Wind in furtive solitude (mostly when my mom thought I was cleaning my room). I was hooked on historical fiction, which fueled my interest in writing and shaped some of my early notions about romantic love.

During high school, I fell for a couple of boys but realized that I was no beau-catching Scarlett O'Hara. Quite the opposite, as Elizabeth Bennett once said. Instead of filling the role of wallflower at weekend dances, I made a conscious decision to focus on reading and writing.

The idyllic heroine stayed with me, finally "consenting" to climb down from her pedestal and get real. She evolved into a girl with emotional baggage who learned to love and trust over a long period of time. The premise of my masterpiece was hardly original and some scenes still oozed cheese, but I scribbled nearly three hundred pages before young adulthood changed my perspective again.

Two weeks after high school graduation, I left home to get a head start on college. The unfinished tale stayed behind in a series of spiral notebooks that I hid in a bedroom drawer.

A mostly studious English major, I tried to dissect sonnets and delve for deep interpretations of literary prose. Romance was relegated to the rare novel that I read over lunch when I needed a break from T.S. Eliot or John Donne (as in deceased poets, not prospective dates).

Just before spring break in 1984, I was studying for finals at the campus library. I'd noticed a tall dark stranger among the fourth floor regulars but when he stopped at my table that night, something clicked. We ended up discussing art history, our families, and milking cows until a pregnant lady from the front desk trekked upstairs to inform us that it was closing time.

Maybe I hadn't driven my car that night because it was low on gas. More likely, I'd left its headlights on and the battery had died. At any rate, the hour was late and March evenings still chilly. When this young man realized that I was shivering/bereft of transportation, he offered his jacket and joined me on the long walk to my apartment.

I could take the easy route and say that the rest of our story is ordinary, middle-class, peanut-butter-and-jam history. It's certainly not the stuff of a bestseller, destined for the big screen. But, unlike a formulaic romance, real-life narratives aren't peopled with Barbie-and-Ken characters who jump through predestined hoops to happy endings that hardly begin to explore the complexities of love.

(I'm not looking down my nose at those who decompress by reading fantasy or "literature lite". The Sound and the Fury when you're raising toddlers or teenagers? Ha.)

Sometimes my husband and I happen to be out walking when the spring sunset mellows to a pastel glow. I remember how it brightened new cottonwood leaves as we strolled across campus twenty-eight years ago. But I don't color that season with shades of nostalgic bliss. Astounding as it was to realize that someone loved me unconditionally, I shared some emotional baggage with my fictional heroine. It spilled into happy moments and deep-set fears, hindering my ability to reciprocate. To trust.

When we married, I was ready to embrace the peace I had felt after he proposed a full year before. It was a leap of faith made with incredible naivete and joy. Like most young couples, we couldn't feel the aching fatigue of prolonged responsibility. We didn't foresee challenges that stripped remaining pretense like lightning on living wood, exposing inner layers. Leaving us vulnerable. Raw.

At the same time, we couldn't fully comprehend the power of committing to promises made before God, family, and friends. Granted, there are times when it is necessary to leave an abusive or unfaithful spouse. But through conflicts, mistakes, and inevitable growing pains, neither of us is going anywhere. The intensity of early attraction was beautiful and valid. So is honest acceptance of a well-known human being in this complex, often frenetic phase of middle-aged love.

In Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, "When you love someone you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity, when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity--in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern."

My fictional heroine still exists in spiral notebooks that now sit on an open shelf as reminders of how it felt to write with joyful abandon. If I ever revisit her story, it won't include duels and abductions. But there is a place for romance in the real world.

copyright March 30, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Forty-Eight Part Two

Are you still with me? I shared the first half of this post yesterday. Because I recently celebrated another birthday, here are more things that I'm thankful for at this moment (one for every year of my life):

25. The miracle of forgiveness. Forgetting isn't part of the equation. Releasing bitterness is.

26. A steaming bowl of soup for dinner on still-chilly evenings.

27. The process of baking bread, which synchronizes all of my senses.

28. Poetry. A short time ago, I nabbed a thick volume by Leslie Norris (another thrift store find). His work is a "concentration and distillation" of everyday experience. Thanks to the internet I'm discovering some more current poets as well.

29. Segullah literary journal. I love the honest-yet-faithful writings by L.D.S. women. One of my poems will appear in an issue which is coming out soon.

29. Facebook. Laugh in my face or strike me with lightning but I'm thankful for this connection with friends, relatives, and adult children who live far from home.

30. A new journal. It was a thoughtful birthday gift from a new friend; I see it as a reminder that I still have something to say.

31. Old notebooks. I used to carry them with me everywhere because I couldn't wait to write, Now they're a concrete reminder that I can feel that way again.

32. Blogs. I'm fairly new to this world but it's opened up some possibilities to share and read others' thoughts.

33. A comfortable home. That's the thing about middle age. I'm learning to be more content.

34. Sibling harmony. It's what I most enjoy when my brothers and sisters get together and what I hope for with my children. My in-laws treat me like family too.

35. Secure employment. We've been less-affected by economic woes; living modestly is nothing new.

36. Caring teachers. I'm overwhelmed by the impact of dedicated coaches, church leaders, and educators in my children's lives. I still remember teachers who mentored and encouraged me.

37. Books. This differs from #15 because I'm talking about the volumes I've collected over the years. They're faithful friends.

38. Music. Technology allows us to enjoy music with the click of a button although my waistline would be slimmer if I had to walk long distances to a live concert (a la Bach).

39. Memories of a few trips we've taken. I loved the Oregon coast, live oaks in Louisiana, and sampling Texas barbecue.

40. A caring community. We have different views but there is always an outpouring of love when someone experiences tragedy or an urgent need.

41. Unfinished projects. Admittedly, boxes of fabric and decor fill my closet and clutter our room. It's been months since I sent anything to publishers as well. But the potential to improve my life, our home, and my wardrobe is there. I have plenty reasons to get up each day.

42. Scriptures. Reading daily is hard right now but I remember times when I've been filled with peace and insight. I'll keep trying and trust that I'll regain that feeling again.

43. The chartreuse green of new leaves. Right now the willows add a blaze of color to our stark desert landscape.

44. Joseph Smith. He was human and never claimed to be perfect. But he was also a courageous witness of Christ. I'm grateful that he restored the church that is my spiritual anchor here on earth.

45. Visual art. We recently enjoyed a free exhibit at a nearby college. There's nothing like seeing skillfully-rendered paintings or sculptures up close. It's food for the soul.

47. Prayer. Like scripture study, this habit has sometimes been hard for me to maintain. Remembering times when I've felt close to God helps me feel like He's still there.

48. My Savior, Jesus Christ. I love the Easter season and can't deny the power of His atonement. He lived and died for us individually. I hope my life this coming year will more clearly reflect this truth.

Thanks for enduring to the end of this post!

Forty-Eight Part One

Feliz cumpleanos: that's how they say it in Spain.

Now that I serve the women in my ward (local congregation), the children didn't sing to me the Sunday before my birthday. It came anyway and I decided to list positive things that are part of my life right now--one for every year I've lived on this planet.

So, in no particular order, I'm thankful for:

1. Pain-free feet. After visiting a naturopath (for lack of a better term), my heels have healed to the point where I can hike scenic (steep) trails again. Maybe I'll work in some running.

2. Our oldest son who shows concern for others while putting himself through college the old-fashioned way. Crazy marathon runner, he teaches me what accomplishing a goal is all about.

3. A courageous, unselfish daughter who also inspires me. One more year to go on her mission. She's doing great.

4. Our second son who introduced me to live jazz and rock 'n roll. I didn't plan to have a kid who plays electric guitar but it can be fun. (He also turns down his amp when asked.) And how many teenage boys spend successive Saturdays helping a friend's family move and paint their new house?

5. Son number three who blew apart any remaining parental preconceptions. Thanks to him, I'm learning more about valuing people for who they are and I've let my hair down. Way down.

6. My youngest son who has a kind heart and never fails to give me hugs before he runs out the door to school.

7. Hot popcorn with melted butter/olive oil and a sprinkling of salt.

8. The prospect of coral-colored tulips in my backyard.

9. Peach blossoms

10. Stunning views from my front windows: sandstone cliffs dusted with snow and a mountain that looks like a suspended blue-white wave.

11. The fact that my middle-aged eyes can transfer this stunning image to my mostly functioning brain.

12. A selfless husband who is my antithesis. That's a very good thing.

13. Rhodiola rosea. I know from experience that alternative medicines don't work for everyone, but this herb is helping to lift my moods.

14, Peanut butter. I still have one child who would not survive without it.

15. The library. I would not survive without it.

16. German chocolate cake and oreo ice cream: my favorite birthday dessert

17. Benja Thai and Sushi, where my husband and I went for this year's birthday dinner. Two reasons: calm ambiance and curry. Maybe someday I'll choose sushi. Or not.

18. My parents, who celebrated fifty-nine years of marriage this week. They didn't make a reality show out of life with ten kids. They just lived reality with sacrifice and faith.

19. The prospect of buying and planting a peace rose bush

20. The prospect of peaches and cream with buttery whole wheat toast for a late-summer breakfast. (Our peach trees escaped damage from frost this week.)

21. Nonshopping sprees. As in avoiding malls for long periods of time.

22. On the other hand, I'm glad that getting an occasional thrift store fix is a harmless diversion. My husband was the one who refinished the $50.00 entertainment center that barely fit through our door. I merely pulled out a $5.00 bill and the attractive skirt that still sported a $99.00 price tag was mine.

23. I'm also thankful for the minimal effort I recently put into losing 10 pounds. More effort will be required to reach my goal, but I'll be able to wear that cute skirt again.

24. The wonderful women with whom I serve in my church. I think God is trying to nudge me out of an introverted state.

Thanks for reading! If you're still with me, look for part two tomorrow.

Walking at 8 a.m. in Winter

Half of a tattered moon clings to southwest sky.
It's the first thing I look for.
It still marks time.
It keeps my eyes off plastic grocery bags
splayed on a barbed-wire fence.

More wind might send them flying

to a gray cottonwood's web.

I'll remember when I lay sleepless,
hearing that first gust shatter the dark.

Unseen sun glazes mesas and mountain
with rose, coral, golden taupe.
Counting each color,
I almost don't see

the boy without a bike helmet

careening downhill.

What started out as a hodgepodge of images from my morning walks turned into a poem, the first I've written for a while. It's not too profound but I view it as more of an exercise that helped me relax and create some metaphors for my emotions and the "gist" of some personal concerns.

This past year has taught me some difficult truths about the complexity of dealing with emotional challenges. I can't "plug" someone into a formula and expect a tidy result. I can't force anyone to heal. At the same time, I don't want to foster chronic dependence or shield anyone from the fallout of choices freely made.

How to achieve balance? I hope I've hit my lowest point and can view others with a greater compassion, especially when natural consequences must take their course. Sometimes I have to walk away from things beyond my control and let desert solitude drain the tension away.

Parenting is a delicate dance.

Copyright Jan. 22, 2012 by Nani Lii S. Furse

Ghosts of Christmas Past

When I was a girl, church Christmas parties were carefully choreographed events. Leaders of the Primary (our church's organization for children) spent weeks helping active youngsters rehearse the Nativity story. The chorister coached us until we sang "sleep in heavenly pe-eace" without sliding into the high note. One year I was thrilled when the Primary president asked me to be Mary, until the honor caused a rift with my best friend who coveted the role. My co-star proved to be a very reluctant Joseph.

The night of our performance was the highlight of December. I loved dressing up in a red velvet dress, brushing my waist-length curls, then squeezing into our old Pontiac with my parents and seven siblings. People in our small town did not bother with elaborate yard displays, but strings of old-fashioned colored lights along a few porches created a magic glow on snow drifts as we drove to the church.

Upon arrival, we weren't served sliced ham with the proverbial Mormon "funeral potatoes". The children's re-enactment of Luke II was the reason that our local congregation gathered and watched patiently from rows of cold metal chairs. Behind the heavy brown curtains, I waited with a coil of nervous anticipation in my stomach until it was my turn to emerge onto the old wooden stage that smelled faintly of lemon oil.

This year, my husband and I took turns driving twenty miles twice a week so that our youngest son could experience the same thrill in a Dickens Festival theater production. There were plenty of ups and downs during three months of rehearsals for "A Christmas Carol" and "Oliver". At first he was a little disappointed about being given the lead role of the innocent-yet-spunky orphan boy. But as the show progressed he admitted that it was fun. When the cast did the final dress rehearsals in a convention center that had been transformed into Victorian London, our son was hooked.

He's come so far from the shy boy who sang an inhibited rendition of "Consider Yourself" at a vocal recital less than three years ago. Last week his confidence and enthusiasm as an actor were a delight to see.

I love having kids involved in theater and witnessing what the experience can do for everyone involved in a show. But on a ward level I wonder if it's becoming a lost art.

Don't get me wrong. After trying to pull off a party for the Relief Society (my church's women's organization), I'm the first to express appreciation for those who accomplish such a feat year after year. Even a short play is labor-intensive while a white-elephant gift exchange is simple and fun. But if the reason for ward activities is to build friendships, why not put a little extra effort into an occasional production? If all goes well (even with imperfections), some hidden talents might come to light and the rapport between cast members makes it all worthwhile.

I'll never forget the fall of 2003 when I was struggling with a sense of isolation. My prayers were answered when the woman in charge of the Relief Society Christmas program asked me to write a readers' theater about Mary the mother of Jesus.

The project was hard; I hadn't written a play since fifth or sixth grade when I naively assumed the entire school would be entertained by my short holiday dramas. But in a few weeks, I churned out a thirty-page script while immersing myself in the minds of those who lived the real Christmas story. It was an intense process.

Sharing my work with the cast and then the women of the ward was even harder. It's one thing to send manuscripts to editors in distant cities and quite another to expose some of your deepest thoughts to people you see every Sunday at church.

The performance wasn't Broadway-brilliant; since then I've improved the script. But the response from ordinary women like me was overwhelming. I'll never forget when the woman who played Elisabeth confided that she too had been struggling, but was uplifted by her participation in the program.

I felt honored by her trust and willingness to step out of her comfort zone and into the character of a woman who also faced great challenges. Our friendship would have never deepened if we had merely exchanged smiles in the foyer of our chapel.

I remembered this while writing the script for this year's program which centered on Christmas in 19th-century Nauvoo, Illinois--a place and time significant to our church's history. After a non-productive summer, I struggled to create a script will all the elements that first gave me a spark of inspiration. I know it still needs improvement and a better presentation. But there were moments when words and ideas flowed, which hasn't happened for a long time. My research on the lives of women who lived in Nauvoo nourished my soul and helped to dispel doubts that I could make time to write historical fiction. I really need to work on that lifelong dream. Just not 24/7!

Was the extra effort worth it? Even though there were last-minute changes in the program that left me paranoid about answering another phone call, I have to say yes. In spite of busy schedules, so many women graciously donated time and various talents to make Christmas in Nauvoo come to life for a couple of hours. The entire process of everyone working together and becoming better friends still leaves me feeling humbled and awed.

Given a little time to recuperate and regroup, I could do this again.

Empty Chairs

It's 2:07 on Thanksgiving morning and I'm wide awake, counting blessings instead of sheep. At the same time I can't help thinking about empty chairs

This afternoon our daughter will file into a crowded cafeteria at the Missionary Training Center to partake of the annual feast.

Obligated to work on Black Friday, our oldest son will roast a turkey and maybe even bake homemade pies in his apartment to share with other students who couldn't travel to their homes for the holiday.

I ache with the memory of our college-age kids staggering through the front door with overflowing laundry baskets, their jackets smelling of November cold as they greeted us with awkward hugs and huge smiles. This year our hall isn't piled with luggage, no one has complained about hot water turning cold mid-shower, and no one's been demoted to sleeping on the living room floor.

How did life shift so fast, propelling our children into the world?

I am thankful that they'll miss us as much as we'll miss them when we gather with my parents, some of my ten siblings and their families for a laughter-filled dinner served on styrofoam plates. Two chairs will be empty because our son has a job and both of our adult children are choosing to serve others in a culture that's often colored by self-indulgence. I'm grateful that they freely embrace their obligations to a God who can never be repaid for blessings He pours upon us.

The winter of 1620 left many empty seats in the pilgrims' first hovels. They still thanked God for deliverance from "perils and miseries".

There will be plenty of reasons for empty chairs today as Americans likewise reserve a time to celebrate thanksgiving.


Copyright Nov. 24, 2011 by Nani Lii S. Furse