A Weekend With Bernie

Today I talked for one and a half hours with a person I had never met in my life. 

It all began yesterday when my wife was photographing the wedding for a young couple. After the wedding they attended a luncheon when she happened to sit at the same table as the groom's grandparents. 

The grandmother asked my wife, “Now, remind me of your name.” 

“Jenelle Lacy,” she responded. 

After a minute of small conversation, an older gentleman sitting at the same table piped up in a loud voice: “So, who is John Lacy?” 

This was odd since neither one of us had ever met each other. 

He introduced himself as Bernie Johnson. When he learned that I, John Lacy, was her husband, he became excited. “I have some documents I need to give him,” he said. 

He wanted to meet me in person. I wasn't there, but through texts from my wife, I quickly became informed of his presence. I was as baffled as anyone. 

It turns out we are both descended from Joel Hills Johnson, a prominent figure in the early history of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Joel is my fourth-great grandfather, while he is Bernie's first-great grandfather. I had a suspicion that this had to do with the reason he wanted to see me. 

His sister lives just up the street and we had arranged that I would meet Bernie the following morning. 

When I showed up, some of the tables and chairs from the reception still adorned the lawn. A small group of family members sat around and visited. At once, Bernie stood up. He was expecting me. I know everyone else in the family and I'm sure they told him it was me. 

Bernie is 80 years old. He wore Sunday pants with a white shirt, but no tie. On his gray head he donned a straw hat. The first words from his mouth: “You are much younger than I thought you'd be.” 

We walked around the back yard to go inside the house. His legs almost gave out. He struggled to make it up the stairs and I supported his back with my hand so he didn't fall backwards. 

Our common ancestor, Joel Hills Johnson.

We found ourselves ensconced in two wooden chairs inside Gaye Matheson's kitchen. Gaye is his sister and eight years his elder. 

On the table sat a large brown expanding folder. In front of it, a stack of papers. 

For the next hour he handed me papers, one document at a time, explaining each of them. We covered so much area that I have already forgotten many of the details. 

He gave me a paper on the resurrection of little children and another on the Biblical mother, Aseneth. As he told the story of Aseneth, tears rolled down his cheek as if he were speaking of his own mother. 

The bulk of what we discussed, however, was Joel Hills Johnson, and in particular, when and where he wrote the beloved hymn, “High on the Mountain Top.” It is disputed within the family and even the church whether it was written in Salt Lake City during the spring of 1850, or at Johnson Fort (now Enoch) in 1853. 

One of the commonly accepted versions comes from Bernie's father, who claims that Joel wrote the hymn while waiting in line at the tithing office in Salt Lake. Each time he returned with a load of lumber from his sawmill at Mill Creek, he knew he was getting close when he could see the flag waving on Ensign Peak. One day there happened to be a long line at the tithing office, so he unhitched his horses and sat down on the tongue of his wagon and penned the famous verses. 

Bernie grew up in Tropic, Utah at the foot of Bryce Canyon where they raised cattle. His grandfather, John Henry Johnson, spent a lot of time on a horse in the back-country, and even led a National Geographic reporter in the early 1900's. On a remote wall in Paria Canyon is the inscription “J H Johnson,” most likely left by Bernie's grandfather. He showed me a picture of the inscription. 

When it was time to go, I firmly shook his hand and told him I appreciated the opportunity to meet him.—But I had to ask one last question. 

“How did you know of me?” 

He wasn't really sure. 

We both belong to a Joel Hills Johnson group (with thousands of members) on Facebook. A couple of years ago I made a comment on it. He's not sure if that's where he heard my name, but for some reason, it stood out to him. 

On the drive here he had the thought that if he were to meet John Lacy, he should give him some documents. 

“So, you were thinking about it on the way down?” I asked him. 

“Oh, it was just a passing thought. I do a lot of thinking when I drive.” 

—And then at the luncheon, he sat down next to my wife. ♠

Lovey and Moki Mounds

At 3:00 last night I was awakened by the persistent bark of our black schnauzer, Lovey. Worried that she was waking the neighborhood, I walked outside to calm her down. As soon as I stepped out the front door, the overwhelming stench of skunk consumed the air. I now knew why she was barking.

Lovey has been a lonely pooch ever since her mother, Moqui, passed away. She gets anxious anytime we leave the home. Her temporary dog house is cordoned off with a small fence, and any time we leave her alone, she makes a high-pitched howling whine. 

I decided that I would spend a little one-on-one time with her this morning. I put her on a leash and we walked down the hill, then slipped through a barbed-wire fence into the field. Here I removed the leash. 

Lovey was excited to be free, criss-crossing from one side to another, exploring and sniffing any nook she could find. She kept her head down as she roamed and never noticed the horses at the far end of the field. 

As we walked I observed the prints on the dirt between the clumps of wild grass. Recently a coyote had wandered across the field. I also noticed two sets of deer prints, that of a doe and very a small fawn. Bigger than them all were the indention of horse hooves. 

After crossing the field we entered a stand of juniper trees, then came to the rim of a small canyon. I worried about Lovey stepping onto cactus, but she didn't. 

I slid down a five-foot ledge. Lovey recoiled when she saw the drop-off, scared of the jump down. But I lifted her into my arms and quickly she was down into the grass and sticks. 

Although Lovey didn't know this, I was taking her to one of my old haunts. As a kid I came here with my brother and we explored the canyon. A stream runs down the middle and we once dug a fork in the stream so that the water flowed on both sides, creating an island. We set up our tent and camped on the island. 

Just a few seconds later and we were at the stream-side. We found the rock and cottonwood tree that once sat inside our tiny island. But now the water no longer flowed on two sides. Nature had reclaimed our little project and the stream only flowed on its original route. 

We pushed through a tangle of reeds and cottonwood trees. Just a little ways up the stream we found a very small waterfall pouring off the moss and logs. Lovey stopped to lap a mouthful of water. 

We climbed up the hill that led to the rim of the canyon. Beneath the lip of the rim is an old Anasazi ruin. About half of the circular-shaped stone structure still survives, looking almost exactly as it did centuries earlier. Inside the cave are foundations of other rooms, but the walls have long since tumbled. Lovey headed to the deepest part of the alcove and sniffed intensely. 

This was a good spot for the Anasazi to live. The stream provided fresh water, the cave protection, and the flats above furnished space to grow crops. 

To exit the canyon I had to climb out and lift Lovey up two different ledges. 

We now walked through the juniper trees. My intent was to walk toward the field and return the way we came. But then I saw the moki mound. 

These small hills of dirt and rocks are likely locations of former dwellings of the Anasazi. At one time these ancient people built land structures just like the ruin we had found earlier. It is possible that they might have occupied and abandoned the same habitations several different times. 

Over the centuries the stone walls tumble to the earth and dirt blows over the structure, essentially burying it. Plants and even trees begin to grow over it, creating a camouflage. A freezing and thawing cycle, over many years, can cause artifacts to be pushed to the surface. 

An array of pottery laid scattered around the mound. I searched and found several interesting sherds. Some were painted in black and white design. Others were textured with various patterns, likely shaped with their fingers. Some pieces contained no decoration at all. But all were made with fine workmanship, being smooth and sturdy. 

As my eyes scanned the ground, I heard a rustling in the trees. I looked up and beheld a roan horse just 25 yards away. She seemed not to care that we were here. Her soft peachy mane fell over her back. 

Lovey and I both stared at her. I was worried that she would start barking and scare the horse away. But she didn't. All three of us just stood and stared. This was our experience, one that I, at least, will never forget. ♠