I was born the seventh child at my grandparents’ house in northern New Hampshire, so far north in fact, that it was almost Canada. Not even a year later my family moved three miles away to a twenty-seven acre farm that we soon populated with a cow and chickens. The house was a large, white, two-story rectangular structure, similar to a cardboard box in stability. In the lower floor lived several elderly people who we (mostly my mom) took care of. In turn they paid us for it. It was called a “shared home”, kind of a pre-nursing home. Looking back on it, the old folks must have really enjoyed having us kids around, except when we were too loud on the floor above. My dad tried hard to convince us not to disturb them, and did this by “conking” us on the head if we weren’t quiet enough. It was an effective method. Eventually four more children after me were added to the family.
We spent our time playing, working, and doing school. There were several ways we amused ourselves; we pretended to be different characters (Robin Hood men or various animals) in the woods; we also played with Lego’s, Duplo’s, block-blocks (pieces of wood my grandfather cut out), puzzles, paper dolls, Manner’s dolls (something we created, basically a cloth doll with a wire skeleton), origami like water birds or dragons, stuffed animals, and Breyer horses. We also read, drew, and did a multitude of other things.
We did not always play—we had chores to do as well. Some of the older kids had big jobs like milking the cow, and the younger ones did things like weeding and taking care of the chickens. All of us were on the “Job Chart”, a turning wheel made out of cardboard that assigned us different daily tasks: dishes, sweep, bathroom, vacuum, etc. Of course, our work varied depending on the season, raking leaves, harvesting, and cutting, splitting, and stacking the wood in the fall, mowing the lawn, planting seeds, and picking weeds in the spring and summer, shoveling the steps in the winter. All year round the older kids watched over the younger siblings.
When we weren’t working or playing we did homeschooling. Our main subjects were reading, writing, history, math, English, and science. Sometimes we had other subjects like Spanish or Latin. At first we did our school with Mom, she taught us how to read and write and do math; as we got older we began to use text books to teach ourselves. However, no matter how old we were, almost every school day we all gathered together and she would read to us, usually out of a historical fiction book. These are some of my fondest memories—she was and is a fantastic reader. Because of her all of us learned to love books and knowledge.
Of course, there were times when we weren’t doing any of the things above, such as when we focused on religion. We were raised as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and spent a good deal of time learning about it. We attended church on Sundays in a little chapel in Randolph, New Hampshire an hour and a half drive from my house, then usually on Wednesdays those of us kids who were between twelve and eighteen went to what was called, “mutual,” a program for youth. We also spent time nearly every day praying and reading scriptures as a family. Every Monday we had “Family Home Evening,” a time to gather together and teach each other principles of the gospel and have fun. When I was old enough to understand I began to study the scriptures and pray on my own too, a habit I have continued even until this day.
I had an ideal childhood, and knew that and was grateful for it even as I lived it.
When I was fourteen I got my first real job at an amusement park called, “Santa’s Village”. Several of my siblings began to work there the same time I did. For five summers I did various duties there—foods, rides, grounds, and even a little theater—and religiously saved my money. I rarely spent it except on presents for Christmas or birthdays and occasionally on clothes boughten at thrift stores. I was blessed with a good dose of common sense and wanted to go to college but knew that would only be possible if I were to pay for it. My father was a hard worker but had trouble in our area finding anyone who would pay him what his skills were worth. It was his lot to never have the same job for very long; he worked as a computer programmer, an electrician, a plumber, a carpenter, and plenty of other things. We never had much money to spare but somehow always made it through the tough times. Still, I knew if I were to go to school, I would not be going to my parents for monetary assistance.
I took the ACT and the GED and applied for school at BYU-Idaho. Some people wondered why I would go so far from home to a school I’d never even seen, and I didn’t really have a good answer, I just felt compelled to go and there were no other colleges I was interested in.
Thankfully, I was accepted, and left home at age nineteen to go across the country all by myself. It was only my second time on an airplane and I knew no one in Rexburg. The Lord must have been watching out for me though because I caught my flights successfully to Salt Lake and then was able to find the bus that would take me to Rexburg. Even more incredible was the driver of the bus; he found out my story—that I knew no one at school and only had a house for an apartment that I knew nothing about nor where it was—and after dropping everyone else off found my living quarters for me, then waited while I tried to find the managers and a key to get in. By then it was late and cold with snow all over the ground, and it was another miracle that they were awake and were able to help me. I remember the driver told me that if I were not able to get in he would have let me come to his house and spend the night there with his thirteen or so children. I was very, very grateful for his kindness and hope I never forget it.
I chose art as a major and accordingly set to work taking classes. College in general was really much easier than I had anticipated; it was surprising to me to discover that all I had to do to succeed in my classes was my homework. My favorite class at this time was “Head Drawing”, a full three hours twice a week where I could just sit down on my art horse in a perfectly lighted room with fellow students and draw live models. I enjoyed it so much that I figured I would do portraits of people for a living after graduating.
I continued on in this direction for two years then decided I would serve a mission for my church. Accordingly, I filled out and sent in all the appropriate papers and received a large, white envelope back, telling me I was called to serve in the Colorado, Denver North mission, English speaking. I was ecstatic. I reported to the Missionary Training Center in Provo during March then flew to Colorado on April 1, 2008.
My mission was incredible. Even now, just thinking about it, I don’t know how to put into words all the things I felt and saw. It was elating to see the joy that investigators gained by embracing the gospel; their lives always changed for the better and they became new, happier people. One woman I remember was pregnant when we started to teach her and she had such low self-esteem she would not meet our eyes and spoke in low mumbles. She chose to be baptized after a few months of teaching and the difference in her was remarkable. She became full of spark and spunk and wasn’t afraid to show it nor was she afraid to look straight at us. It was phenomenal and made me want to burst with joy. By that same token, when those I had grown to love chose not to accept or act on the truth, my soul was torn with sorrow. It brings to mind the less-active girl who struggled with illegal drug use. For a time she returned church and had new life in her, and even began to plan on a mission herself, but then she lapsed and her former habits came back and so did her old countenance. The memory of it still makes me ache with pain for what could have been. I changed from my mission; I became bolder and my testimony more sure; I feel too like it was there I came to know, understand, and love the Savior.
During that year and a half I had some time to think about my future; I decided that though I deeply loved drawing, I didn’t have the drive to sell my art skills. Ever since I was a kid investigating and talking about all my injuries Mom had been telling me what a great paramedic I would be; I had always resisted that idea, but was now ready to rethink it. When I returned to school I took the EMT class and fell in love. Nearly everything about Paramedicine appealed to me: the excitement, the science of it, the opportunity I had to help those in dire need. I also am not a fan of hospitals, but I do like the homey feel of fire stations. Really it was a perfect fit. I did well in all my classes, so when I applied to the paramedic program at BYU-Idaho I was accepted.
Now I am in the last semester of the program and of school in general. I walk in July and go on my internship to Oklahoma City in the fall then graduate officially in December. Besides my mission the program has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it has been well worth it. As part of my education I get to do ride-a-longs with the Rexburg and Idaho Falls fire departments so I’ve been able to see some interesting things: broken bones, cardiac issues, asthma, the whole gamut. I love it a great deal, and think that it would be pretty neat to someday be a flight medic and ride around in helicopters and airplanes. I would also like to be a mother though I don’t know how well the two things would mesh; for right now the first option is more likely to become a reality. Who knows what happens next; I guess we will see where life takes me.
