My Daughter, the Doodler

In our home we tend to have a lot of notebooks. Some are for school, others for personal use. They may be used as a diary, for class notes, shopping lists and so on. With our older notebooks, there is usually one common denominator: at one time or another Brittany “borrowed” them to doodle. 

Now that she's been gone for ten years, this has been a blessing. Every time I open a notebook and find a sketch of the Eiffel Tower or a poodle, it always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eye. 

Between writing stories and drawing random pictures, she left treasures behind everywhere in our home. Her bedroom, which has largely been left untouched since her passing, is a trove of artwork. School projects remain on the wall. Pieces of loose paper or 3x5 index cards sport fancy little drawings. Of course, she owned several notebooks of her own, each displaying her skills. And then there's her journals. She didn't just write her daily events, she drew them. 

Last year I conceived the idea that I would pore over all those notebooks, scour her room looking for those stray pieces of paper, and dig through her journal to collect her drawings. Then I would capture the images with a camera. It has taken me a while to get around to it, but the last two months have been a pure delight, coming across memories that I hadn't recalled in years, and discovering new snippets I had never known. 

One such discovery was a book she wrote and illustrated. It was a retelling of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The most touching part, however, were the words on the inside flap: “For my two little sisters, Jenna and Savanah. I hope you both love reading this book or having it read to you!” Jenna is now 19 and Savanah, 16. It was as if their sister in heaven had written them a book. 

As parents, it took a while to realize that Brittany's doodling was healthy. In the beginning, when she doodled at school or church, she would get in trouble because we felt she wasn't paying attention. But then we learned that she was paying attention and if she were allowed to draw while listening to a teacher give a lesson, then it would help her focus. 

One of the amazing things about her drawings was that she never needed a reference point. Jenelle recalls one evening when she needed to draw a picture of a Confederate soldier for school the next day. She went in her room and ten minutes later came out with a perfect picture. She didn't need to go on the internet or look in a book to know how to draw it. 

Most of her artwork reflected herself and her real world, as well as her fantasy world. Common themes included girls, fairies, poodles, friends, cousins and anything to do with France, especially the Eiffel Tower. 

A couple weeks ago I was fortunate to meet up with one of Brittany's best friends. Ame is now grown and married, but back in the day they had a playhouse in Ame's backyard. In the playhouse was a fridge and the rule was that anyone who came inside had to write something on the fridge with an erasable marker. Brittany scribbled some words, then drew a picture of a beautiful girl in a pearl-strap dress. Ame's family never erased the drawing. Ame shared that story with us and sent us a picture. What a delight to come across another little treasure! 

For the most part, Brittany's drawings were never official pieces of art, but just doodles. Exceptions usually came in the form of assignments or contests at school. One such project was a “Peace Poster Contest.” Brittany spent time on the computer studying different flags and peace symbols from around the world. She then proceeded to create a drawing that included the Eiffel Tower, a pyramid, the Taj Majal, Statue of Liberty, peace symbols and flags from around the globe. The crowning feature was two doves with their tail-feathers intertwined in such a fashion to form yin and yang. 

The contest was held on a city-wide basis and she won second place. It was only two months before she passed. Now the poster sits behind glass and is on display in Jenelle's room at the elementary school. Young kids come in all the time and are fascinated by the poster. 

Another drawing we are fond of is that of an angel. Brittany drew it for her friend, Lauren. The angel sits atop a cloud with a large crescent moon behind her. A four-point star hangs from the moon and a small bird stands atop one of the points. We didn't know that Brittany had drawn this picture until Lauren showed it to us after she died. She made us a copy and now it is embedded forever on the corner of her headstone at the cemetery. 

It's hard to know what would have become of Brittany had she lived a longer life. She passed away just nine days after her fourteenth birthday. Would she have honed her skills and become a great artist? I don't know. Her greater passion, I believe, was writing. A lot of times her drawings were an enhancement to her writing. In addition to all those doodles scattered around our house are page after page of mostly fantasy stories that she began to write . . . some of them ending abruptly in mid-sentence! As I combed through her room I found one such novella that was 109 pages long and unfinished. 

The legacy of Brittany lives on. Not only do we talk about her and reminisce on her life, but now others are benefiting in her name. Shortly after her death, my brother created a scholarship in her name at Southern Utah University. It is intended for freshman students in the college of Performing and Visual Arts and is called the Brittany Lacy Memorial Endowed Scholarship. It has been a pleasure for Jenelle and I to attend banquets with the recipient of this award. 

As you read this post and look at some of our favorite doodles, I hope you feel just a little bit closer to Brittany. Left behind are gems and jewels more valuable than a chest of gold. My advice to all of us is that we look around and recognize the value of our riches. Not the wealth of the world, but the worth of souls. ♥

 

 

The Vision of Samuel Orton

Samuel Taylor Orton was no stranger to divine manifestations. In 1856, as part of a handcart company crossing the plains, he became sick and fell behind. All at once a voice spoke to him and asked, “Samuel, are you here?” He answered,”Yes, I am here.” But when he turned around, he saw no one.

This experience got him thinking and he asked himself, Why am I here? He wanted to know if the cause he was walking for was a true cause. Just a year earlier he had been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Now was a time of reflection. Did God the Father and Jesus Christ really appear to Joseph Smith? Was Brigham Young his true successor? If these things were true, Samuel determined he wanted to see a halo of light around the head of Brigham Young when he arrived in Salt Lake. 

He regained strength and was able to catch up with the rest of the company. They soon met with a team from Salt Lake who brought them flour. This helped immensely as they were all on rations and very hungry. They successfully made the rest of the journey. 

They arrived October 5th. The following day was conference and they met in the old bowery. Samuel took his seat and watched the people coming in. Then he saw President Young. Rays of light surrounded his head, just like he had envisioned on the plains. Even the brethren next to him had a faint halo about them. Then he heard the same distinct voice he had heard on the plains: “Now Samuel, if you ever apostatize, here is your condemnation.” 

Samuel Taylor Orton.

This was a powerful witness that stayed with Samuel his entire life. 

During that same month Samuel made the trek to Southern Utah in company of Joel Hills Johnson, who would become his future father-in-law. He lived and worked with Brother Johnson for eighteen months.

In the spring of 1858 he moved just a few miles northwest to Summit Creek where he and other single men took up farming ten acres. They were the first men of European descent to settle in that place. 

It was here where Samuel had his marvelous vision. The account is stated in his own words: 

“One day while I was plowing in the field, my oxen stopped suddenly and refused to go any further. No amount of persuasion, coaxing, or whipping did any good. So I finally unhitched and went home. The next day I started again, and when I got to the same place, they again refused to go, so again I went home. The third day I went again, determined that nothing would stop me from doing my work, but when we got to that same place, again I was stopped and I was rather provoked, so I went up to see if I could persuade them to go by leading the leaders. When to my surprise I then beheld a great battlefield with men fighting hand to hand. I recognized at once the Nephites and their colored brethren the Lamanites that I had read about in the Book of Mormon. I was convinced that we were standing on the battleground where they had a great battle. After the vision passed, my oxen plodded along without any further trouble.” 

Final Nephite Battle by Jody Livingston.

The location of the vision took place near the Summit Cemetery in Iron County, obviously many years before it became a cemetery. Even before I heard this story, I was told that the cemetery stood atop an ancient Indian burial mound. 

The cemetery is small and now has grass. There are several burials from the 1800's, the oldest I could find was 1864. There is a distinct mound in the middle of the graveyard, upon which there are several headstones. I don't know if this is the burial mound referred to by early settlers. There is no doubt that this entire area is hallowed ground. 

That fall Samuel Orton built a dugout where he spent the winter. The following spring he built a modest cabin. During that same season three families came from nearby Johnson's Fort and settled along the creek. That was the beginning of the little town of Summit. 

In November of 1860, Samuel would marry Julia Johnson, the daughter of Joel Hills Johnson. Thus began another saga, one which would take a tragic twist. Of this story I will write later . . . ♠ 

 

Summit, Utah Cemetery.

 

 

 

Sources 

“Samuel Taylor Orton (autobiography),” Family Search, online. 

Samuel T. Orton, “The Testimony of Samuel Taylor Orton,” handwritten ms. in the possession of decedents of A. Hills Orton, youngest son of Samuel; transcript available online at Family Search.

Thai, the Tuk-tuk Driver

We planned on spending the day on-foot, exploring Phnom Penh at our own leisure. After tramping along the wide Norodom Boulevard, we came to our first obstacle. The gigantic roundabout at Independence Monument spanned at least three lanes and vehicles zipped around at a constant pace. Crossing it would be a challenge. We stood at the corner sizing it up and deciding our next move. 

Much to our surprise and unsurprise, a tuk-tuk driver pulled to the side of the road and asked in broken English where we wanted to go. I pointed across the roundabout at Wat Langka, one of the many Buddhist temples in Phnom Penh. He shook his head. “This one,” he said, “only for monks. No for public.” 

And then he gave his pitch. “I take you for three hours, five places.” He pulled out a laminated sheet of paper that had pictures of all the places he had in mind. 

“No, thank you,” I said. “We just want to walk.” With two fingers I made a walking motion just to make sure he understood. This was our first morning in the city and I just wanted to be left alone. We were one of the few foreigners and I knew we had a bulls-eye for anyone trying to make a dollar. 

As if he were anticipating our next step he added, “Royal Palace, no open. Closed for pandemic.” Well, that's a bummer, I thought. What other bad news does this guy have?  “What's your name?” he asked. I gave him our names. Then he put forward his hand, “My name is Thai, like Thailand.” 

In my mind I was conjuring up another excuse as to why we wanted to go it alone, but then it dawned on me. Why am I fighting this? This guy knows far more places than I do and he can drive us there faster than we can walk. Am I just trying to save thirty bucks? 

I took another look at his laminated sheet of paper and this time I took note that there were several places I hadn't ever seen on the tourist websites. It suddenly looked like a grand opportunity. “We'll do it!” I told him.⸺That was the best decision we made the entire trip. 

We climbed into the back of the tuk-tuk and Thai turned around with a big grin. “Very good choice,” he said. “You will be happy!” 

He proceeded to drive us around Phnom Penh, first stopping at the lawns of the Royal Palace. Even though it was closed, he allowed us to get out and take all the pictures we wanted. 

Then he drove across the river to the old Royal Palace where the kings lived 200 years ago. It was now abandoned. Next to the palace was an old cemetery. We got out and explored on our own while Thai stayed at the tuk-tuk and waited. 

I will admit that on that first day we didn't pay close attention to Thai. Although he was super nice, I considered him as some guy who would drive us around for a few hours, and that we would never see again. He looked like your typical Khmer with a slender build, dark hair and brown eyes. He wore a light brown plaid shirt, blue jeans and crocs. The most noticeable thing he always wore, however, was a big smile. 

After three hours of visiting Buddhist temples, feeding monkeys and giving piggy-back rides to Cambodian children, we were well-satisfied with our time. Every place but one was a place we had never considered. Thai had won our favor. 

During the drive back to our hotel, Jordan and I devised a game plan. Tomorrow we had two places, both out of town, that we wanted to visit. It would be ideal to already have a driver lined up to take us. As we disembarked at the hotel, Thai readily agreed to drive us again. 

He promptly picked us up at 9 o'clock. In fact, he was in front of our hotel ten minutes before the hour.

For the next hour and a half we sat in the back of the tuk-tuk with a gentle breeze blowing at our face. It was a pleasant experience as we rode with the traffic, albeit at a slower pace than the cars. Little by little the bustle of Phnom Penh faded away and the countryside now became our venue. 

Along the way, Thai stopped at a gas station to use the restroom. What we saw next was a surprise. He got off the motorbike and as he walked toward the restroom, we saw that he walked with a huge limp. His right foot, it appeared, pointed outward and was stiff like a board. The poor man was partially crippled. We could see that it was difficult for him to walk. Now we understood why he chose to wait at the tuk-tuk yesterday while we walked around. 

We arrived at a large lake called Tonle Bati. A row of nearly empty wooden huts on stilts sat along the shoreline over the water with small dangling bridges leading to the huts. After relaxing in one of the huts it was decided that we would go on a boat ride around the lake. Since there were only two of us and the boat had room for more, Thai asked if he could come along. Of course I said yes, and at that moment we could see a sparkle in his eye and the exhilaration of a child. 

You see, even though Thai had driven people to this lake before, he had never been on the boat. Even though he lived only a couple hours away from this beautiful place, he could never afford the ride for himself. 

As the driver shuttled us on the water, Thai pulled out his phone and face-timed his daughters. “Look where I'm at!” he said in Khmer. He turned the phone around so Jordan and I could wave to his daughters. It was quite a touching moment. 

The boat ride was a good place for conversation. Although his English was broken, he still spoke well enough to get across his idea. We learned many things about Thai. 

First we learned that he had polio, and that was the reason for his crippled leg. He has five kids and lives in a tiny house. He sleeps on the floor and showers outside using a bucket. He used to own his own tuk-tuk, but during the pandemic he somehow lost it, and now he has to rent one. 

He works hard to make a meager living. He works seven days a week until 9 or 10 in the evening. After work he might read a book or drink a beer. He lives about 8 kilometers out of town and it takes him an hour to drive home. 

He likes both Trump and Biden, but not his own government. He feels his government has done nothing for the people. Nothing has changed in thirty years. 

During our boat ride we stopped at the other side of the lake to walk around an old Buddhist temple and cemetery. Thai, of course, stayed with the boat. It made me think of the unfortunate hand he's been dealt. Not only was he dealing with physical limitations, but also limitations due to the country where he was born. 

After our visit to the lake we drove back toward Phnom Penh. Our second stop would be at the Killing Fields. Anyone familiar with the history of Cambodia will know the devastating story of the Khmer Rouge and the Cambodian Genocide. 

Led by a communist dictator named Pol Pot, over two million people—nearly a fourth of the population—were killed. This happened in the late 1970's. Many were captured and taken to the S-21 Prison in Phnom Penh, then transferred to the Killing Fields where they were executed. 

By this time we were taking a liking to Thai and wanted to support him and his family. We decided to have him take us around the following day, which would be our final day in Cambodia. We had no idea where to go, so we received suggestions from him. 

Once again, promptly at nine o'clock, Thai met us in front of our hotel. It was decided we would go to Oudong, the old capitol of Cambodia. On this day we didn't have many long conversations with Thai. The drive lasted two hours, most of it pleasant except for a brief stint spent in a traffic jam just outside Phnom Penh. 

When we arrived he stayed at the tuk-tuk as usual while we spent a couple hours exploring a small mountain filled with temples, stupas, monks and monkeys. In the end we came off the mountain and found a cemetery tucked behind a monastery. 

Before we left I knew I wanted photos with the three of us. Thai summoned another tuk-tuk driver to take our picture. Thai also wanted to be our friend on Facebook. He pulled out his phone and surprisingly I was able to find my name with a search. This was when I learned that his full name was Thai Son. 

But I also had one last question on my mind. Was he affected by the genocide? 

The atmosphere immediately turned somber and he turned around to face us. We learned that both his parents and a sibling were killed in the genocide. He doesn't remember them. He was just a baby. He was placed in an orphanage where he lived for fifteen years. He said he remembers going to the Killing Fields when he was ten and crying because he was sad. His finger touched his face just below his eye to indicate a tear. He did not know his original name. “Thai” was given to him at the orphanage. 

What a sobering note to end our tour. It brought the genocide closer to home. It also made me wonder how many others were directly affected. 

As I write this I sit at my computer over 8,000 miles away. Thai has reached out on Facebook and we have had a couple small interactions. I will admit that I feel a twinge of guilt living a life of prosperity and in a place that has been relatively peaceful during my lifetime. We have had our share of trials, but nothing near what the entire Khmer people have had to endure. 

But Thai kept a smile. He always seemed to be happy. Although his life situation may somewhat limit him, he had a positive attitude. He had a simple life. He made the most of what he had. There's a lot to be learned from him. ♠ 

Too Little Time in Tokyo

The Tokyo Skytree as seen from the Asakusa District.

As we descended toward the land of the rising sun I looked out the window and watched the morning's first rays dance on the clouds. Mount Fuji rose majestically toward the sky. Ahead of us we had an unknown adventure.  

We had never attempted a stunt such as this, nor did I think we could pull it off. We had an 8-hour layover at Tokyo's Haneda Airport. Our goal: to visit Sensoji Temple in downtown Tokyo. 

We weren't even sure if we were allowed to do this. I had received an email stating that if we were in transit, we had to stay in the airport. Upon landing the announcement over the intercom stated something about quarantine. Making matters more complicated, Japan had only been open four days after being closed for over two years due to the Covid-19 pandemic. The deck was stacked against us. My plan was to find an employee who could speak good English and ask them flat out if our plan was even possible. 

We landed, strapped our bags over our shoulders and as soon as we exited the plane I asked the first employee: “We have a long layover. Is it possible for us to leave the airport?” ⸺Everything was lost in translation. I was 0 for 1. 

Shortly afterward I became 0 for 2. I was becoming hopeless as we made a long walk down the corridor and passed through security. Surely now we couldn't go back. But I asked one more person, a friendly-looking Japanese girl. At first she didn't understand, but when she did, she smiled and led me to where I needed to go . . . all the way back at the beginning! 

This is not a narrative about being trapped inside Haneda Airport, so I will not bore the reader with those details. To sum up, we spent over two hours trying to leave the airport. Part of it was spent cutting through Covid red tape. Most of it was wasted waiting in a long line at Immigration. We also exhausted valuable time searching for a place to store our luggage. 

Catching the train to Asakusa.

At last we found ourselves in front of a confusing kiosk selling train tickets. Honestly, the kiosk itself wasn't confusing. It was the sheer amount of options that was overwhelming. Luckily for us, a friend of mine who is a Japanese expert coached me through the process before our trip. He also gave me a 10,000 yen bill. 

We found Asakusa Station and purchased two tickets for ¥530 each. We descended the escalator and found the correct train (not the one going to Yokohama). Within minutes we were on the Asakusa Line, speeding into town. 

Although Jordan was half asleep from getting little rest on our previous overnight flight, I was excited for him because this would be his first true subway ride. The train to Asakusa was overground until Shinagawa Station, then it went underground. 

I enjoyed the overground part. We peered out the window at the tall buildings and spotless city streets. Occasionally we spotted a religious shrine surrounded by a cluster of trees. Twice I caught a glimpse of a cemetery, both with narrow tall headstones in the Shinto style. 

There wasn't a speck of trash or even dust on the subway. Although plastic rings dangled from the ceiling for hand-grasps, at this time of day the coach was scarcely crowded. Everyone minded their own business and sat quietly in their seats. Most looked at their phones except one lady who had a laptop. 

Beautiful Tokyo.

It took us 45 minutes to arrive at Asakusa Station. We followed the signs for exit A4 through the underground labyrinth and up the escalator until we emerged into downtown Tokyo. After all the struggle and stress, here we were! We emerged onto a narrow pedestrian street. It felt as if we were on a side-street in Disneyland because everything was so meticulously clean. Across the way I noted a ramen shop. 

It wasn't long before we came to a major roadway. From here there were countless people on the sidewalks, but scarcely a vehicle on the road. Off in the distance to our right we could see the iconic Tokyo Skytree, the tallest tower in the world and over a third of a mile high. A rickshaw puller conveyed a stylish couple in a two-wheeled cart. Those on the side of the street waited patiently for the light to change before they crossed the road⸺a stark contrast to the chaos of Saigon. 

Kaminarimon Gate leads to the Sensoji temple grounds.

Nakamise Street, a popular shopping road in Tokyo.

A couple enjoys a rickshaw ride.

We now came to Kaminarimon, or Thunder Gate, the portal that would lead us to the temple complex. A giant red lantern hung from its beam. Throngs of people were everywhere as we passed through the gate and walked along Nakamise Street. This pedestrian walkway was full of shops, all selling traditional souvenirs, toys and food. Nakamise is one of the oldest shopping streets in Japan. It is said that in days of old, locals were given permission to open up shop in exchange for cleaning the grounds.

We observed the people. Some were robed in traditional Japanese dress. Some of the women adorned themselves in kimonos. We saw one lady dressed as a Geisha. It was a sight to behold. Families walked together, parents holding their child's hand or carrying them on their shoulders. People were polite. There seemed to be a natural organization to things. 

Family walking in traditional dress.

The elegance of a Geisha.

Tokyo street art.

This was a place of worship. They had many rituals I did not understand. Some gathered around a cauldron of incense and waved smoke onto their face. 

We now stood at the entrance of the Sensoji Temple, an iconic structure that is one of the most important in Japan. Sensoji is a Buddhist temple and contains the statue of Kannon, a Bodhisattva in the Buddhist religion. The statue was found by two fisherman in the Sumida River in the 7th century AD. It was recognized by the village priest as a sacred figure. A shrine was built to house the statue and in subsequent centuries more was added to the complex. Much of it was destroyed in World War II, but later restored. 

We saw lines of people queued up to pay homage to the Bodhisattva. The devotees stood in line, and when they got to the front they tossed coins down a metal grate and made worshiping gestures by bowing their heads with hands clasped together. 

The Great Hall of Sensoji Temple.

A cauldron of incense.

Panorama of the Sensoji Temple complex.  Hozomon Gate on left, Gojyunoto Pagoda, center, and Grand Hall, right.

Gojyunoto Pagoda.

Much of the complex was closed to the public. This included the gardens and Gojyunoto, a five-story pagoda that contains Buddha's ashes. In spite of that disappointment, we were still able to enjoy the temple grounds, including a statue of Buddha. Hozomon, or the Treasure House Gate, is a double-decker gate similar to the Kaminarimon, and leads to the Great Hall, which is the building that houses the Kannon statue. 

We didn't have time to sit on a bench or soak up the moment. No. We had to keep moving. By this time we were getting hungry and it would have been ideal to sit down ad enjoy a bowl of authentic ramen. But we didn't have time for that either. 

Hozomon Gate.

Giant straw sandal on Hozomon Gate.

Buddha statue on the temple grounds.

At one point we wandered off the temple complex and onto the streets of everyday Tokyo. We didn't stay there long. We returned to the booths and vendors, this time to look for souvenirs. Jordan found a wall decoration and I a small replica of the Gojyunoto pagoda. We also bought two small bags of unfamiliar food, one that looked like different varieties of rice cake. 

We looked at the time and knew we had to start heading back. We walked one last time through the crowds of people on Nakamise Street and through the Kaminarimon Gate. 

Japanese treats.

Across the street I spotted a 7-Eleven. I was told by my friend that 7-Eleven is the best place to buy cheap, but filling food, including ramen. We entered inside the small convenient store where we found several unfamiliar cooking appliances and refrigerator sections filled with unknown food. I knew that this was my chance to try some unique ethnic food, but I just didn't know what to do. And, anyway, we didn't have the time for it. So we settled on a package of sushi that we could take back to the airport.

We returned the way we came, searching for the Asakusa Line and Haneda platform. Everything seemed easier on the way back. We paid ¥530 for our return tickets and entered the busy subway. This time there was no room to sit. We watched out the window as we came above ground, wondering what other adventures lied within Tokyo. I'm sure there were hundreds. 

Jordan hanging out on the subway.

Our total time on the street in Tokyo was only 1½ hours. In hindsight, we probably could have stayed longer and we should have sat down to a bowl of ramen! But like they say, hindsight is 20/20, and we had a flight we couldn't miss. 

We made it back to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I'm glad I can now say I've been to Japan, but really it was just a tease. I'll have to return and visit the country in depth. My curiosity has certainly been piqued. ♠