Joyce Verla Pratt Berrett
married
Mark Richard Berrett
September 27, 1950
They enjoyed their first year together . . .
and were still smiling after 50 years.
59 years later we’re still celebrating that union.
Category: memories
Helping me search
It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a genealogy geek. Family history has really become my passion, and I’m happy spending hours at the computer or my scrapbook table piecing together a picture of our past.
So imagine my excitement when upon following a suggestion from a Relief Society lesson in St. George last Sunday, I discovered this gem – new.familysearch.org. – a family history website provided by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for use by . . . anybody! I’ve only just begun figuring out the possibilities, but I can already tell that this will be a great asset to my genealogy projects.
Somebody (actually lots of somebodies) has done a lot of research, and this website has organized the information in a very usable manner. I was excited to find the names of ancestors from Butler, Pratt, Carpenter, and Berrett lines. I took some time to study the time line that lists major events in chronological order. And I oohed and ahhed in amazement when I clicked on “maps” and found pushpins all over a Google map showing significant events in my life, including our marriage and the births of our children.
Check it out – I think it’s a happy place to visit!
Marriage Milestone
September 2, 1994
It was a beautiful day.
You both looked happy
and a little bit young,
but didn’t we all?
We decorated,
you celebrated,
got tired,
and left .
Happy 15 Years!
A date with Dad
Turning 14 years old was a big deal, because then I was old enough to go to Stake Dances and they were a REALLY BIG deal. The Fort Worth, Texas Stake had a very active youth program and the Stake dances were a big attraction. As newly eligible Mia Maids, my friends and I eagerly anticipated the dances and planned well ahead what we would wear, who we would see, and plotted ways to get a certain dance with a really cute boy – or avoid a dance with a dud.
An annual event in the stake was the semi-formal dance at which the First Year Mia Maids (the girls who had turned 14 during the year) made a debut into stake dance society and were formally introduced in a traditional ceremony escorted by their fathers. We felt so important to be spotlighted this way, and we were convinced of our maturity and obvious grace!
Shopping for my dress was great fun. This would be my first formal, and my mom was great about making certain that I felt well dressed. As I recall, we found the dress in a little boutique, and I was pretty sure at first view that it was “my” dress. The formal was white satin with a chiffon overlay embroidered with long stemmed pink roses. The pink ribbon around the waist set off the flowers perfectly and my proper white gloves completed the outfit. When I tried it on, I knew I was a picture of loveliness and couldn’t wait to wear it.
This picture is actually a re-enactment of the corsage pinning, staged on Sunday afternoon
When the big day arrived, my dad was the ideal date, showing up with a beautiful corsage of pink baby roses that were perfect with my dress. He looked especially handsome in his dark suit and unlike many of the boys my age, he was taller than I! I was proud to be escorted by such a good looking gentleman.
I can’t believe I still have this rose – 41 years later well preserved in my “Treasures of Truth” scrapbook.
My dad has escorted me through many milestones in my life and has continued to support me through much of the everyday routine. He deserves my respect and admiration – I was occasionally a challenge to him and he kept his cool most of the time. He’s still handsome, he’s still taller than I am, and I’m still proud to be seen with him.
Memories from a daughter
Recently I’ve been missing my mom. All I really wanted for my birthday was to go to North Ogden and put flowers on her grave. Somehow, it seemed fitting to celebrate her on my birthday. But since that wasn’t possible this year, I’ve been savoring some great memories. Mom taught me a lot over the years – some things serious, some things practical and some things just crazy!
So here, in no particular order, are a few of the gems I picked up from her. She didn’t necessarily use these words (except for a few that my siblings will surely recognize), but by her example she tutored me in some of life’s important lessons.
I hope I never forget these Joyce-isms, but honestly – how could I!
- Be proud of who you are
- Fold the laundry as soon as you take it out of the drier
- Celebrate your marriage
- Speak up
- Love chocolate
- Launder the kitchen cloths and towels in a separate load
- Be nice to your brothers and sisters
- Clean the toilet thoroughly – including the space between the seat and the tank
- “Two sets of four” is the hardest phase to get
- Don’t treat your friends better than you treat your family
- Great shoes can make your outfit – or your day
- You can do it willingly or unwillingly – but you WILL do it
- Grease and go naked with your hair on fire (her response to any whining about having nothing to wear)
- Service in the Church and to the Lord are a key to happiness
- Springtime lilacs smell so good
- A mother’s love is unconditional
Thanks for everything, Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Preserving Memories
I’m in the middle of a big project.
It’s not new.
I started it years ago.
But now I want to finish it.
I have a lot of tools to play with.
Some of them are practically new.
Even though I’ve had them for several years.
It has to do with this kid.
And his upcoming wedding.
I’m making a mess.
But I’m enjoying the time consuming process.
And I think we’ll all appreciate the finished product.
It will be well worth the time and the clutter involved.
I love these people – and the ones they’ve added to our group.
I love to remember.
Iranian Born Boy
As I look back at the years of my adult life, I am kind of amazed at some of the things I have experienced. Some might call me brave and adventurous, but others will consider my choices irresponsible and stupid! And at any given time, I could agree with either of those opinions.
On February 2, 1977, I added another item to my list of adventures when I gave birth in the foreign (and I mean FOREIGN) country of Iran. Call it crazy or call me courageous, we were thrilled to welcome a new little boy – even if he was considered a dual national for about 16 years.
This was the view from my hospital room – very foreign as were some of the procedures.
About two weeks before Nathan was born, Don and I went to a pharmacy, prescription from Dr. Shams in hand, and bought all of the supplies and medication I would need for labor and delivery. We left the pharmacy with a bag filled with shots, pills, and IV materials, having spent only $9.00. What a bargain! Upon my arrival at the hospital, I handed over my bag of goodies to the attending nurse, and we were set.
Inside the hospital, my room was very typical and was cleaned regularly – like at all hours of the day and night. However, the communal bathroom designated for my use was wa-a-a-a-a-y down the hall, and the broken toilet seat and blood on the floor made me question my sanity. Why exactly did I decide not to return to Colorado to have this baby?
My doctor looks rather foreign, but was very competent. And I just look bad!
Thousands of miles from Colorado and with no telephone service available, the only way to announce our newest arrival was with a telegram.
We wanted all the family to see how cute our little boy was. So we sent lots of pictures and wished the grandmas could adore him in person.
While we were doing all the paperwork to be discharged from the hospital, Nate reached his limit and began crying almost inconsolably. As I had made it very clear from the time I was checked into the hospital that this would be a bottle-fed baby, I asked one of the nurses to bring me a bottle for him. Her response in broken English, “Oh, no missus. You feed.” I replied that I was not feeding, and hadn’t they been giving him bottles in the nursery? Again the response, “Oh, no missus. You feed.” When I insisted, one of the staff finally showed up with a bottle that was so dirty it looked like it had been rolled through the “jube” or gutter. The hole in the nipple was so large that when I tipped the bottle, the milk ran out of it in a steady stream. Horrified, I set the bottle aside and decided that listening to Nathan scream was a far better alternative. I refused to allow myself to wonder what he’d been fed in the nursery.
We were relieved to leave the hospital for the security of our own home, and felt that the Lord had truly taken care of both Nathan and Mom.
What a sweet welcoming committee awaited us.
Happy Birthday, Nate!
Not without our daughter
. . . so we took her with us. To Iran in 1976. I know – what were we thinking?
With these fresh-from-BYU faces
. . . . . . . . 
mounted inside these official documents
we began our 10 year Middle East adventure on January 27, 1976 .
We said good bye in Pueblo.
We said good bye in Greeley.
We were off to make a home in a country that I had only been able to locate on a Bible map.
Yes, that’s a leisure suit Don is wearing. What else would match my faux fur collar? It was 1976, and we were at the height of fashion.
Don had accepted a job teaching English to Iranian Army helicopter pilots and mechanics in training in Isfahan, Iran. The salary was $1000 a month plus a 40% cost of living allowance – an incomprehensible amount of money to these married college students who had been living on about $270 a month in a basement apartment in Provo, Utah.
We landed in Tehran and spent a few days in the capital before traveling to Isfahan – the city that would be our home for the next three years. The first day in Tehran, I forced us to be up and awake in an attempt to win the battle against jet-lag. When I pulled back the drapes in our hotel room and was greeted by this sight, I wondered if lack of sleep had caused me to hallucinate. Was that really the hotel laundry drying on the roof?
Upon our arrival in Isfahan, we worked with a real estate agent and located a brand new building with apartments to rent. We rented the upstairs flat (3 bedrooms) for 28,000 rials or $400/month. The Iranians take the term “unfurnished” very literally – the only appliances included were a water heater and a swamp cooler. No heat, no stove, no refrigerator. . .
Emily and I posing in our living room window
Shortly after moving in to our house, we rented a car from some fellow Americans. At 6,000 rials or $85/month it was a real bargain and renting would give us the chance to see if we wanted to depend on taxis or have the luxury of our own transportation. A couple of months later, we purchased the car , a 1961 Volkswagen Beetle, for $1000 – no extra charge for rust or dents.
The first few months (actually about a year!) were rough for me, as I was desperately homesick and realizing that $1000/month didn’t make anybody rich, regardless of location. However, eventually I came to appreciate the adventure and life experience this move allowed. Some of the friendships we nurtured in that very foreign country have continued over the last 3+ decades, and we have some very happy memories of our years in Iran.
And if these pictures don’t make you laugh, I’ve got more to come.
Building Bridges
When Mark was young, he was unusually afraid of bridges. Each time we drove across one, from the backseat we could hear his voice edged with fear urging whoever was driving to, “Hurry, hurry. Go faster! Hurry and get across.” He didn’t look out the car window, but kept his head down or his eyes straight ahead so as not to see the ground fall away beneath. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get to whatever destination was on the other side, he was simply terrified of the process.
Then when he was a little older and began to understand that bridges weren’t so scary, Mark was brave enough to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge on a family trip to San Francisco. He realized it was kind of fun to be up so high and have such an amazing view of the entire Bay area- although still a little nerve shaking to look down.
Last July we were in San Francisco once again as a family. This time we rode bikes across the Golden Gate bridge, stopping from time to time to marvel at the time and effort spent in construction, the view, the distance across, and the convenience that bridge provides. Mark was as excited about that adventure as the rest of us – even sporting 10 month old Charlie in a seat on the back of the bike. We all felt something exhilarating about biking across that expanse of concrete and cables – it was one of the highlights of the vacation.
This week as I’ve been processing seemingly endless pictures and mementos of family members I don’t actually know, a couple of times I’ve wondered aloud why I’m really doing this. I wonder if I’ll ever really complete the project. Tell me again who is going to care about all this stuff. Why am I taking the time to sort, organize, preserve and label pictures of a lot of people who are gone and almost forgotten? Who would really know if I threw some of this stuff away?
“. . . family history builds bridges between the generations of our families. Bridges between generations are not built by accident. Each member of this Church has the personal responsibility to be an eternal architect of this bridge for his or her own family. Dennis B. Neuenschwander, “Bridges and Eternal Keepsakes,” Ensign, May 1999, 83
What a great reminder! The picture albums I am creating, the blog posts I am publishing, and the memories I am preserving are family bridges. This work allows each member of the family – past, present or future – to be discovered or rediscovered. These records are the bridges that connect those of us living today with those who have gone before and those who are yet to come. I am in awe when I consider the time periods these bridges span, the care with which they’ve been constructed and preserved, the panoramic view of family they provide, and the connection I feel to these faces and letters. My feeling of exhilaration returned!
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things that make me happy 