What is it?

At first sight this place hurls you into the early 20th century. Who occupied this place and what was it like? Well, my grandfather and grandmother, Chester and Evelyn Anderson lived here many years ago. Its just outside of Atwater, Minnesota. The small house on the right, barely visable through the trees, was where my grandparents lived with a few children. The place on the left was actually a store. More like a mercantile and there used to be gas pumps in the front. Directly behind the house was Mud Lake, a lake that frequently rose to the level of the house leaving mud everywhere. My uncle Delbert told stories of drinking beers from the store in the back by the lake and getting caught. We even found some of the old bottle caps while we were there. The stories quickly told of a time when my grandparents didn't have a way to make a living because the road passing through (hardly a modern day route) became less traveled. It was in the post office that my grandfather heard about help needed at the shipping yards of San Francisco. I imagine he was hardly thrilled at the idea of leaving a family of 5 or 6 at the time but duty overpowered emotion and he left for California. Many months later the kids followed. The family left in Minnesota (Dahle's and Anderson's) they were then referred to as the "California Anderson". In the years that followed they returned a few fingers short on 1 hand to revisit the family in Minnesota. Cousins left cousins, son and daughter left parents, and brother and sister left siblings.

Soon years would pass and tragedy would sweep the California Andersons with the passing of their son and brother Willey. I learned a lot about my uncle Willey. I learned he loved cigarretes and then replaced them with a love of family and faith. He was baptized into the LDS church after pursuing a girl of that faith. For him, it came easy. To marry that girl he had to be baptized. What followed his baptism was more interesting. Conversion! It was evident when I heard several family members recall his missionary efforts. Per capita, he was an awesome missionary to those he taught. He baptized several members of the family. [When talkin about this stories emerged of how my great great grandparents Dahl were approached by missionaries when first coming into Chicago and how my great grandparents Anderson were approached by missionaries as well. My grandparents commented on the impression it made on them and how they would never forget it...they would also never surrender much interest in any religion.]

1 story in particular jabbed at me. It was when uncle Willey had cancer and his health was failing fast. He could see his poor wife frozen in disbelief. As he lay sick in the hospital bed he would sit up and star down from the window to view his 2 sons playing. As a father I cannot imagine what was going through his head but he never feared outwardly.

I had the opportunity to meet one of his sons, Mark (same name as myself). It was extremely hot in Minnesota the day I met Mark and we were eating outside. Sweat beaded from my face and it was somewhat confusing to tell whether I was crying or not at first. I was. It soon became a dead giveaway because I was silenced mid sentence by my own emotion. I just wanted to tell him how thankful I was that his father, Willey, gave such a tremendous gift as the gospel to his family. It all came home to me at that moment as I realized how fortunate I had become because of his missionary work. I love my life and my family, however, I know my love for them is increased because of my understanding and familiarity with the gospel. This was a shock to my cousin Mark and i'm not quite sure he knew what to do. I felt a little dorky but I was radiating with gratitude and the spirit bore a strong witness as to the significance of being there at that moment. Mark slowly became talkative and we learned that he knew less of his father than we did. His mother, true to her original fear, seemingly covered her emotional scars throughout the years by refraining from any and all discussions about their father, Willey. Mark learned so much about his father and I was glad I could witness that. I couldn't help, however, seeing Mark as a child, playing outside the window at the hospital, clueless that he was about to lose his father. I can only hope that my heart felt thanks was communicated.

Cousin Mark told of a box of letters in his mothers closet. Letter written to her from uncle Willey. His mother has kept them from her children for many years. On one ocassion cousin Mark attempted to open the box of letters and read some but was quickly reprimanded for doing so. Who knows what Uncle Willey was really like? I hope those letters are read someday soon.