Making the World a Better Place, One St. Johns-ite at a Time---by Carol Ashton

While browsing on Facebook this quiet Sunday morning, I noticed a post from a young man who grew up in St. Johns. His post indicated that his father had come to the Valley of the Sun in recent weeks to assist in the ordinance of setting apart this young man to serve in a bishopric. The post sparked some ruminating on my part, which piggy-backed on some pondering I have been doing in recent weeks. The questions in my mind seem related:

1. I wonder how many individuals from St. Johns have gone on to serve in positions at work or in their religious life that have impacted the individuals around them?
2. How far does the influence of St. Johns reach, and how many lives have been touched by this small town in Arizona?
3. What was it that brought our family to St. Johns over 40 years ago?

How many individuals from St. Johns have opportunity to make a difference to others? I think there must be hundreds (maybe thousands) of school teachers, coaches, scout masters, music teachers, primary teachers, pastors, military chaplains, mothers and fathers, etc. that have roots in St. Johns and thoseindividuals have sure impacted the lives of others for good.   As I contemplate that list, I am astounded at the strength of character and good that is in the world because of that group of people associated with St. Johns!  Although I only have personal knowledge of those that have passed through or continue to live in St. Johns since the 1970’s, I feel that the legacy of goodness goes back for many generations!

I believe the influence of St. Johns reaches across the world – the community has sent out missionaries and servicemen that have served across the world, hometown boys have served as Solicitor General of the U.S. and had interactions with people from foreign lands, and as President of BYU Hawaii with students from across the globe.   Over the years since I moved away from St. Johns, I have found it interesting that most people I meet and have a conversation with either personally know, or know of someone from St. Johns.  And they have good things to say about those they know – just today in church our speaker related an incident from approximately 20 years ago when someone named Rachel gave daily, Christ-like service to their family.   As he was telling his story, my eyes filled with tears and my heart smiled because I knew that Rachel was a “girl” who grew up in St. Johns and learned all about service from the good people there.

Why did our family choose to settle in St. Johns, Arizona when my husband graduated from college with his Master’s Degree?   Was it the high wages? – certainly not as his salary was $6000 per year!   Was it the availability of wonderful shopping facilities? – hardly, as those shopping opportunities consisted of ESP, Matt’s Circle M, Triple S, St. Johns Drug Store, and maybe a few other small shops.  Was it the beautiful, balmy weather? –no, because the pipes in our rental house froze solid that first winter and a few times after that!  It wasn’t a well-planned or much discussed decision.   I believe there must have been a higher power at work that prompted us to move to this small Arizona town – a power that knew it really would take a village (town) to help us raise our five boys and one girl.   That power knew we would need a town of people with strong character and kind hearts;  a town full of people willing to serve others around them and set a good example for the young people growing up in that little town; a town full of people that would befriend us and make us feel welcome and at home, that would allow us to serve them and grow to love them.  Recently my younger brother paid me a compliment and told me that I had raised some really good kids – in responding to his compliment I realized that I could not take full credit for raising those kids, even my husband and I could not take full credit – some of that credit must be shared with the people of St. Johns who helped raise our kids.

As I look back on the 23 years I spent in St. Johns I can honestly say that my heart will always be tied to that small town of St. Johns and the wonderful people who reside there.   They make the world a better place!

 

It takes a Village.....

In May of 1994, I was a 20 year old college student. I had two friends getting married and was asked to be a Brides Maid. I hopped in the car with a friend and headed into the unknown town of St. Johns for the reception. Honestly I don't remember much about that trip, other than it looked REALLY small and I said I was never coming back. That night after the reception I do remember going to Circle K.  Upon exiting the store a good looking boy held the door for me. Once outside the store I ran into an old college friend who was a policeman in town. We talked for a few minutes and then I was on my way. I left town the next day and never looked back. UNTIL 15 months later in August of 1995, I met that good looking boy who held that door for me at Circle K the previous year and my life was forever changed. 7 months later in March of 1996 we were married.  

We spent the first few months of our marriage in Pima.  We then chose to move to St. Johns just for the summer. After our short summer here we moved on to Mesa, where we spent 3 LONG years while my husband went to school and we started our family. Our first born came into this world two months early and was so TINY.  However with lots of prayers, he made a go at living in this world. 16 months after his entrance into this world, his sister joined our family. A year later we made the move back to the Gila Valley where my husband would do his student teaching and have his first teaching job. We lived there for a year and a half when we had the strong urge to get back up to the White Mountains. Applications to teach were put in all over the mountain. We came up to some surrounding towns of St. Johns for interviews. There were offers from various districts in the area but, nothing felt right. Shortly thereafter my husband received an offer from St. Johns. We immediately knew it was right and in 2001 we made the move.  I can't say I loved it here right away, but I knew it's where we needed to be. However less than a year later, I came to love this sleepy little town. 9 months after moving here, another girl joined our family. 

We've lived in three different houses since making the move. With every house and neighborhood we have lived in, we have had great neighbors. All willing to help out whenever was needed. Our kids participate in many church and school activities. We are blessed with wonderful leaders in both church, school and sports. I know that my kids are in great hands no matter if it's a church or school activity. The leaders love not only my kids, but ALL the kids in this community. They are also not afraid to "smack" them into shape if they are misbehaving. But regardless of their behavior they are loved by other people in this town besides us. The proverb "It takes a village to raise a child", took on a new meaning when we chose to raise our kids here.  I am so blessed to live here and I am forever grateful for all the people in this beautiful town who help us pick up the slack where we fall short.

Michelle Ashton

What Does America Mean to Me Anyway?

A few months back i was visiting with Ruth Patterson in her home.  During our visit she shared a talk she had given in church in 1996, part of which was a paper about America written by Josie Patterson that Ruth had used as a conclusion to her talk.  With it being 4th of July weekend i thought it would be appropriate to share, so i stopped by and asked Ruth if she would mind posting it.  She didn't feel comfortable doing it herself but said i could for her. In her words she said, "A few years ago i found this choice essay on the floor of Mama Josie's house years after she was gone.  I think it was written about the time of the second world war in the 1940's.  I think she(Josie) would have liked me sharing her thoughts on her families adopted homeland with you." 

                                 What Does America Mean to Me Anyway?

 

Last night I was thinking and my mind immediately was hundreds of miles away in a foreign country, Sweden; a land I have never seen, but a country where my ancestors have lived for generations.  I have in my mind a vision of a beautiful land, a country of trees, grass, and lakes.  I see sturdy, strong, hardy people; fishermen, lumbermen.  I see their fine schools, see that they are a cultured people, that they love education; they love a just government, and I imagine I can hear and see and feel the masses of the people sing their National Hymn, "From the Depths of Swedish Hearts.
 

I have some Swedish cousins in Salt Lake City and on the wall in one of their homes hangs a beautiful picture in color of my Grandfather's home and farm.  It is still a good place, a modest little cottage, set back among huge trees.  One large tree in front of the house, my father used to play under.  I have a little boat made from one of the limbs of this tree.  Uncle August, my father's oldest brother died in this home last summer.
 

I have wondered who the missionaries were who first brought the Gospel of Jesus Christ to my grandparents.  How they were received? Did they accept the Gospel readily?  How great a sacrifice was it for them to leave their native land and come to a new country where customs were different, where a new language had to be learned, where people were snobbish and often laughed at the immigrant?
 

I have heard my father tell of the hard earned dollar that was sent back to Sweden to pay the fare of another member of the family who had to remain behind on account of poverty.  How each nickel and dime that could possible be saved was laid away for immigration. Then I have wondered, was it the Gospel that gave them the desire to gather to Utah to the Saints, or was it the wonderful land of America, the land of liberty, freedom, and opportunity that beckoned them on.
 

I have often thought of my my Swedish parents coming as children to America--the weeks of sailing on the ocean, then crossing the plains.  Then when newly married, of receiving a call to come to Arizona to help build up this part of America a little.  At times I have regretted my parents not teaching us the Swedish language.  I thought it was carelessness, but now I understand, it was something deeper than carelessness.  It was the thought of Americanizing us. This was our country, our home, our land, we were to learn the language without a foreign accent.
 

America is all I know.  It's my country.  I am a part of it.  In fact, we are America.  It offers everything, schools, a chance to develop in any line a person chooses to follow.  There are no class distinctions.  It's like the Savior, no respected of persons, equal rights for all, and these rights will be protected as long as we live up to the laws of the land--laws we make ourselves.

To Latter Day Saints it is the home of the great American religion, the thing that is the vital moving force in our lives.  This religion or ours and this government of ours makes me want to be a good citizen, makes me want my children to be God fearing people, good citizens that will help build America and help make and keep it a choice land above all other lands.  That's what we are willingly sending our boys and husbands to war for, that this land will be preserved and our standards of thought and life may go on and not me cursed.
 

I think I feel toward America, the land of my birth, like I feel when I go to Salt Lake City to conference, to the tabernacle and the great pipe organ and choir bursts forth in music.  It always comes to me, I feel to thank Thee Heavenly Father, that I am part of this Thy Church.  Help me to be worthy of a place here.  That's the way I feel about this land.  I thank Thee Lord that I am a part of America.

 

Written by Josie Anderson Patterson

Shared By Ruth Udall Patterson

A transplant can give new life

Recently I traveled to the Kansas City area for a family reunion for my wife's side of the family.  It was very relaxing and enjoyable.  We have done this for the past 14 years, but this year was the most enjoyable and satisfying that I can remember.  My in-laws own 80 acres in a town called Pleasanton 60 miles south of Kansas City.  Their property is beautifully situated in the hills of eastern Kansas.  Their modest farm house sits atop a sizable hill which overlooks a stunning view of a spring fed lake.  My kids love the fishing and the whole outdoor experience that their grandparents provide for them each and every year. The landscape is full of heavily treed areas that provide a sort of secure feeling all around the borders of the farm and most importantly privacy.  The grass and shrubbery cover all the surface soils and create beauty for all to enjoy.

I wanted to paint just a small picture of the area so you could empathize with what my wife has sacrificed to live here.  Describing her parents farm I should have said just picture everything opposite of St. Johns!!! LOL  Although I was in this perfect little retreat to spend a week with nature and enjoy myself (which I did), I wanted to share what I enjoyed most of all.

My wife's family is quite large and so for weeks leading up to our trip I dreaded all of us being packed into the farmhouse like sardines.  Funny enough, what I dreaded the most is what I really ended up enjoying most of all.   One night while we were all gathered together in the family room, Grandpa Hinds called all his Grand Children together, because he wanted to tell them a story which essentially turned into him bearing His testimony about the power of God. The story he shared came from an experience from his younger years when he first was married.  It was awesome to see the kids silent as they watched tears fall from their grandfathers eyes as he told them that God was real and his power was a reality.  This set the mood and spirit for the rest of the evening.  I remember it being very calming and peaceful as I sat and pondered what was shared while I looked out the big window facing the north.  The view from the hilltop is spectacular especially as the sunlight begins to fade as it moves below the horizon.  As the time went on Keirsten and her Brothers sat around the room and begin to sing hymns about the restoration and the Savior. She has six brothers and all of them sing, thanks to her Father who encouraged(forced) them to develop this talent as they grew up. I was embarrassed as i sat gazing out the window as tears from the spirit wouldn't stop building in my eyes.  My heart was full of gratitude at that moment for my in-laws for raising such good children. Six eagle scouts and six full-time missionaries and one temple worthy daughter.  The fact that my children and my nieces and nephews could listen to the music and feel the spirit was so sweet.  It carried power to their hearts because of the blessing of experiencing it in their grandparents home.  This was an unforgettable moment for me and made me feel ashamed that I had complained about having to be cramped up with these truly awesome people!

I wanted to share this because their are many, many people, that have moved here that have come from similar circumstances that have so much to offer.  I am truly grateful to all of those people that have come here from all over to bless SJ.  I know it can be very difficult to be a transplant here.  I hope we can all reach out to our neighbors and get to know them better and discover who they really are and help them feel welcome. St. Johns is a special place that provides peace and security, take notice during the fiestas and the pioneer days celebration how many people travel back here to feel the spirit this town creates and carries. St. Johns has always been a special place from the beginning of time.  The arrowheads scattered throughout the surrounding hills and valleys have left a true stone record from the first people to settle here up to the present.  This record starts with the earliest Clovis settlers to the Folsom men down through archaic periods to the natives that were here when Coronado came through in the 1500's.  Why were they here? What drew them to the St. Johns area?  The water of the little Colorado river and surrounding springs were most definitely a draw and provided sustainability for them and their families.

Modern times are no different, the sustainability of the water brought the Spanish through here and created the strong Hispanic culture still here today with a deep Christian values and principles.  The river also enticed the later Mormon Settlers to plant roots here and provided sustainability for families in the high desert of eastern Arizona.  They constructed the dam at Lyman to provide a reservoir of water to draw from during the growing season that is still utilized today to grow everything from crops, lawns, orchards and vegetable gardens. Now that St. Johns is established, why do people still come here?

Many people in the area today are a direct result of the natives who were originally here, the Spaniards that came through or the Mormon pioneer ancestors.  And even more have moved here and are not linked to the past of SJ.  So many awesome people have moved here that have helped shape, develop and preserve our small town life. All the details of how St. Johns was founded are very interesting but really the only thing that matters is...it is established and it is here.  It is my prayer that in the future SJ will continue to draw people here to carry on a tradition of peace and security for all time and throughout all eternity!

Chris Nielsen

The Beauty of Callused Hands

I enjoy the opportunity I have to read the blogs that my friends submit each month.  We really are blessed to live where we live and have the lives that we do.  Occasionally though, I take a look outside of our little town at the rest of the world.  One thing is certain, and that is change.  While I try to embrace changes that make life better or difficult tasks easier, there are a lot of changes that I quite frankly just don’t like.

My grandfather, Maurice Raban immigrated to the United States from France. His story is one that I hold very close to my heart.  I think of him often.  I also think of the things that he did that made him, and those of his generation great. Maurice came to this country by boat when he was not quite 8 years old.  He remembered standing on the deck while they were pulling into New York Harbor and hearing the people around him weeping.  His young child heart didn’t yet understand the great sacrifices those who traveled with him had made to come to the Land of Liberty where they could pursue their hopes and dreams.  He traveled with his uncle and aunt, and his grandparents who had given up everything they ever knew – their lands, their homes, their security, their language, their culture, and even most of their family and loved ones.  Grandpa Maurice might have been a little like me, when I was a child… He was precocious, and found himself on the wrong end of the discipline spectrum more than once. He was raised by his aunt, even though his mother lived in the Round Valley area.  When he was young, he went to work in California with yet another aunt.  This situation, however, was not good, and my grandfather was homesick and wanted to return not to France, but to St. Johns.  He was 13 years old when he packed his bag, and left his aunt’s home in Bakersfield, through a back window. 

Maurice did not have the means to travel home. He found work in a dairy, in California not far from his aunt’s.  He asked the farmer for a job, just until he could earn enough to pay for his way back.  The farmer and his family loved young Maurice.  The farmer asked him to stay, and promised he would be loved as though he was the farmer’s son.  As great as the offer was, the boy wanted to go home, and did just that.

Maurice, like most who lived in those days spent the rest of his life working not only with his mind, but with his hands, and his legs and his back.  He farmed; he took care of his family, and their animals.  He knew how to use a shovel, and how to manipulate the earth so that it provided enough for him, and those for whom he had stewardship over.

We don’t do that anymore.  In our world today, we hear of those who wait for someone else to do the work.  Please don’t misunderstand me!  I love the convenience of life in 2014. I am concerned though, that we are forgetting how to raise a garden, and put away for winter.  Our food generally comes from a corporate farm or ranch in a place few of us have ever seen!  Our kids are forgetting what a shovel is for, and that callused hands come after the blisters have healed.  They don’t know that Smuckers doesn’t make the best jelly and jam!

I am not a dooms day kind of person.  But, I can’t help thinking that if things continue as they are, at some point our living here will put us among the safest, most desirable places to be, because we are out of the way, and self-sufficiency is in our blood.

So, let’s continue to change what is good, and beneficial, but let’s not change the fiber of who we are.  Let’s not let the self-sufficiency and the ability to wear out a shovel escape us. Let’s keep our gardens, and our orchards, and our flocks and our herds healthy and strong. 

My grandfather Maurice, and probably your grandfathers too, left a legacy that surely is not just destined to be a footnote in history. It seems more and more likely that their legacy will be the roadmap for us and future generations of their families to live by, in order to preserve their posterity and ours!

Jeff Raban

The Lady Who Took Care of a Rogue Pig, Spilt Milk, and Me

I was six years old in 1938, and we lived in town in St. Johns. During the summer we did some gardening on our lot.

My dad was of the old school, and when he butchered a pig or a cow, he saw to it that all the widows in our area got some choice cuts of the beef or pork.

My job was to take a small lard bucket of milk to a family having a tough time. There were two older boys on my route to the family. They just gave me a bad time. Sometimes I spilled some of the milk, and the family was short because there wasn't that much left in the little lard bucket.

One of the widows was a lady whose name was Julia Greer. She was a school teacher, and when she spoke, things happened.

I was told that her neighbors had a pig. It would get in her garden and root up everything. She had told and told them again and again to keep their pig penned. She lived in a two-story house. The window on the second story made a good location to accomplish her task, and her task was to shoot that neighbor's pig. She did and killed it dead.

I would listen to that story and think, "Is that the same lady I have learned to respect and love?" Needless to say, I was full of respect for her or maybe you could call it a bit of fear.

The two older boys would wait for me to go down the street. They would cut through the field and meet me before I could deliver the milk. One day I could see I was in for another butt-kicking, and, to say the least, I was not looking forward to it. About that time, Mrs. Greer came out on her front step, and in a voice that you knew she wasn't there for fun, blasted those two kids. They hunkered down and ran back home through the shortcut in the field.

Boy, talk about a buddy! She was then and there mine.

My family taught me to respect older people.

Someday I will tell you about my time with a very old cowboy, Prime Coleman.

By Ted Raban
June 8, 2014

St. Johns, Arizona

I was born and raised in St. Johns, Arizona.  It seems like anytime I tell people where I’m from, they always seem to know someone from St. Johns, Arizona.  It doesn’t matter where you are.  In fact, it’s not just me.  I’ll bet most of us from that wonderful  little town have had that happen many times.  My dad, Ted Raban, had an experience once.  You may have heard this story, but like my dad says, if I’ve already told it to you, don’t stop me.  He was traveling across the back roads of Ireland with my mom many years ago.  They were visiting castles and country sides.  They were on a small bus taking them to the Bed and Breakfast where they would be staying that night, when my dad casually started a conversation with another gentleman sitting on the bus.  After getting acquainted, the gentleman asked my dad where he was from.  Dad told him he was from a small town in Arizona called St. Johns.  “Oh,” said the man.  “I once knew a man from St. Johns, Arizona.  His name was Ted Raban.  Do you know him?”

St. Johns will always be home to me.  Even though I’m grown, married with my own family and living away, St. Johns is still home.  To me, that meant knowing every single student in my High School graduating class, or every person in my High School for that matter.  It meant our teachers taught Math, Science and English during the week, and Sunday School or Primary on Sunday.  That meant when my sister was given a reckless driving ticket for driving on the sidewalk between the cement pillars and the old Wilbur’s store, the judge gave her a pat on the back and said, “I wouldn’t call that reckless driving, I would call that impressive driving!!”  That meant growing up with things such as Screamer’s Valley, the Little Resi, sandwash parties with bonfires, whitewashing the SJ, Duke’s pond, Lyman Lake, and Freshman initiation.  It meant leaving your keys in your car and going to bed with your doors unlocked.  It meant the cannon going off early in the morning on the 4^th of July, the pancake breakfast and races in the park.  It meant the 24^th of July  celebration, with the parade, rodeos and dances at the old downtown pavilion.  It meant our friend’s parents were known as “uncle and aunt” instead of “Mr. and Mrs.” and that they were almost as invested in how we were raised as our own parents were!

But more recently, it has come to mean so much more.  A few years ago, my husband Matt was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  He was given only a few months to live.  Even from afar, this “town of friendly neighbors” gathered around me and my family to offer their support of faith, love and prayers.  We received many financial contributions by mail.  To help out with a benefit barbeque in our behalf, fellow St. Johns friends and family donated beef to barbeque, and multiple items to be auctioned off, including guns, golf clubs, a steer and a registered quarter horse.  And just as important as the material support, is the moral support we continue to receive.  Phone calls (one all the way from Tampico Mexico), letters and mostly, the prayers.  Not just from our faith, but from other denominations as well.  We’ve been told that the High Priest Group in the St. Johns Little Colorado Ward prays together for Matt every Sunday.  I am continually told by people from home, “We’re praying for you.”  I believe that those prayers going up to Heaven from St. Johns, Arizona carry a lot of weight with our Heavenly Father, because after more than 5 years, Matt is still with us.  Faith, Love, Support and Prayers from home have helped to keep my husband alive and my little family intact.  That’s what St. Johns, Arizona means to me.

By Jodi King