DAY 4 Revisiting our childhoods in Pittsburgh. Sunday Sept. 13, 2026:

The 3 Little Girls. 
I am apparently pulling my shorts as if they were a princess dress.

I eventually got the dress.
Straddled by my four sisters at my
wedding reception in the Pleasant Hills Chapel.

Sunday morning, we rose and put on our Sunday clothes, the ones that make us feel like the day is set apart. Driving the familiar path up Old Clairton Road we arrived for 10 o’clock church at the Pleasant Hills Ward. We were actually early...unlike the many years we waddled in behind our mother on what was known as "Hansen Standard Time". That was an ironic twist on "Mormon Standard Time", which was generally late but less late than the Hansens. Ann Marie had brought some of her homemade bread, so we went early enough to give it to the priests to use for the Sacrament. A.M. makes what we call 'Bread for Jesus" every week for the Sacrament in our home ward here in Utah. I thought it would be sweet to use it in the chapel of her childhood. And so it was.

Serving my sister Ann Marie's Bread for Jesus.
I know, according to the handbook I should not have snapped this photo.
Lord, forgive me, I want to preserve how my sister did this kind of thing.

The chapel was surprisingly full. While faith seems to be dwindling in Zion, it is alive and well back east. My sisters and I were hurled back in time to our earliest years. 

That chapel had been the one constant edifice that saw us through all our years in Pittsburgh. This is where all of us were baptized, including Dave. My sisters and I sang in Sacrament meeting when Dave gave his mission homecoming talk. Exactly one year later we were married, and we held our wedding reception in that cultural hall. This is where our two oldest children were blessed. This is where I found my voice as a singer, with a loving and receptive "audience" in the pews.

It feels old and weary now. So little has changed. Its vintage blonde wooden pews, unaltered walls and ceilings and weathered hallways have gently held so many memories for us. Though most of the people were unfamiliar, there were enough we knew to make it feel magical. Patti and Tim Campbell. Joy Wilkinson. Elaine Steffenhauer, among others. We imagined the sounds and shapes of people who molded us as children of faith. I remember our first Branch President, Pres. Deutsch, whose wife Genevieve made be best cabbage rolls. That, and other glorious ethnic food, infused its divine aroma into the hallways at branch dinners and the yearly JC Penney Inventory. We all worked every day and into the night for a couple weeks reviewing inventory cards for Penney Corp. Bless Johnny Voelkel for gettiing us that gig. That's how we earned enough money to build the addition onto our little church house. Those two weeks are precious in our memories. Crock pots and electric roasters simmered away in the library. We had no kitchen then. Eventually we took a break to eat, then back to work. Our school homework suffered, but the lessons of unity and laughter and solidarity in purpose changed me more than any math equation ever has.

Walking the halls and classrooms after the meetings I felt eight years old... then twelve...then 16. I saw in my mind's eye all the ghosts of our spiritual past. June Voelkel leading the choir, Barbara Perry at the piano, and former Bishops Beus, Gardner, Wood, and Stuart standing at the pulpit. This is where adolescent crushes, and the rush of spiritual witness had sprung, taken root and welled up inside me. This is holy ground, and though I was not born here, I was surely re-born in that little old church on Old Clairton Road.

"Fount of Every Blessing"
The baptismal font where all four of us were baptized.
Hasn't changed a bit. And we are all still believers.

After Dave graduated from Law School and a Federal Clerkship in New York, we moved back to Pittsburgh and attended this Ward. This is on the front lawn of the church.
Johnny is holding his sister Sarah on her blessing day. That's his cousin Clayton sitting beside them.

Even the drinking fountain is the same.

We three little girls gave multiple 2 1/2 minute talks at this little pulpit in the Primary room.

We know these walls, these floors and halls.

After church we drove out to the site of TJ High School as we knew it. They had torn down the old school last year. The new school, about a mile up the street, is jaw-droppingly beautiful.  Go Jaguars!

We drove back to the house, dropped off Libby and Kate cuz Lib wasn’t feeling well, then AM,  Dave and I drove to Patti and Tim’s house for a chipped ham sandwich lunch. Joy was there as well, and we enjoyed a lovely afternoon visit for a few hours. There are no friends like old friends, the kind you can point to something on the table and they will pass it without saying a word.

Me, Patti, Joy and Ann Marie at Patti's house in Bethel Park.

Desperately missing our Sunday naps, we made it back to the house and flopped on our beds for a bit. The church carrilon around the corner chimed at 6 pm for a good 15 minutes, marking the time, followed by a series of sweet hymns. They ended with Dave's mother's favorite piano piece, Clair De Lune. 

We soon decided, since there really isn’t a comfy place to sit together at this house, we would go to a movie and sit in their recliners. Up at the AMC Theatres by South Hills Village we gobbled popcorn and Coke Slurpees and watched a movie called The Runner. It was a good way to spend the evening. 

Back at the house we sliced fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and boiled fresh corn from Trax Farms for a late night dinner. Ahh, the beauty of a late summer harvest from beloved old Trax Farm.

DAY 3 Revisiting our childhoods in Pittsburgh. Saturday, 9/12/26

Outside the house on Old Clairton Road,
when the pine tree was still small.

We wove our way through the lush Pennsylvania hillsides out to Somerset County. These were the highways we took to get to Seven Springs Ski Resort, a bunny-hill of a ski spot compared to the mountains in our Utah backyard. Here is where I learned to dig the edges steeply into the icy snow just to stay afloat on the slopes. Learning to ski on ice makes it surprisingly difficult to ski on powder.

Probably the age I was when I learned to ski, maybe 14 or 15.
That's Mom behind us.

Today there is no snow. It’s late-summer warm with a refreshing breeze. An hour and a half on the road and we turned up onto the hillside marked Flight 93 Memorial Site. We decided to give this day to honor the dead whose last mortal acts preserved them in patriotism and courage.

The passengers on Flight 93, knowing they had been hijacked by terrorists, made a democratic decision to resist, committing to do all they could to keep their plane from becoming a weapon. Because their flight had been delayed, they had received news that the Twin Towers had fallen by weaponized planes. This set a group of forty passengers and crew members on a journey with no return. What we know of what went on during that flight has been pieced together to tell the story of courage, creativity, mutual respect, and unity. It’s well documented and well worth a couple hours of pause, study and reflection because the best in them stands to ignite the best in us.

The road we travelled took us first to the Tower of Voices, a cement edifice standing 93 feet high, surrounded by conifers of trees. The tower houses 40 large aluminum chimes, one in honor of each passenger and crew member aboard that flight. Attached to each chime is what looks like the flap on an airplane wing which, when it catches a breeze, moves the chime and emits a mournful tone. 

Each chime carries a unique pitch, the collection of which conjures beautiful harmony and dissonant discord. To hear those earthy pitches ringing against the silent country woodland is more reverent than it is eerie. We walked in silence. My sisters both shed tears.

A local woman named Robin took this photo of us. She had been mowing her lawn 25 years ago and saw the plane flying too low, then heard the explosion and saw the smoke. She is a musician and finds comfort in this musical memorial to the victims.

Further up the road a sobering black pathway leads along the debris field in a wide, sobering path to the crash site. A large boulder sits out among what is left of a grove of hemlock trees. The names of those who died are carved into granite walls. At the base of each section are small shrines made of flowers and tokens. We walked in silence, speaking in hushed tones when needed. A soft moist breeze pushed us along. It felt ironic, remembering the heat and speed of the tragedy of that day twenty five years ago. A nearby schoolteacher remarked that it was an ordinary, beautiful September day, with a brilliant blue sky. A massive black plume broke the blue, carrying souls to their final resting places, scattered in the winds of Pennsylvania.

Because we were there one day after the 25th anniversary of the crash, there were many tokens left by family members who had come the day before. This photo was taken by a farmer just after the crash occurred.

A large boulder sits in a grove of hemlock trees where the impact occurred. It serves as a headstone. Only family members are permitted onto the crash site itself. If you zoom in you can see flowers and other tokens set atop the stone.

The visitors center is designed to follow the flight path before impact.
It's beautifully done and full of tenderness and symbolism.

There are 40 marble walls with the name of each passenger and crew member who died. 

On the drive back to Pittsburgh we revisited what we had seen, what we had felt, and our personal memories of that day a quarter-century ago.

Stopping, by insttinct, at an antiques mall in Somerset, I purchased a celluloid Santa and Reindeer for my collection, as well as small glass mugs for something I'd like to create for neighborhood Epiphany gifts.

Arriving at the house in Mt Lebanon, we embraced our Kate who had driven to meet us from her house in Youngstown NY.

The evening brought the greatest joy as we met up with Dave’s little sister, Chelle for a delightful dinner at the Grand Concourse Restaurant. The setting was spectacular, the company divine, and the food OK.

On the staircase at the Grand Concourse in Downtown Pgh.

After a photograph on the stairs of that grand old building we went over to Mount Washington and rode the Duquesne Incline, looking out over the sparkling city as that old railcar cranked us up the steep hillside and back down. The night was rainy, but paused enough for us to partake of sights, which was generous of the city that has been overwhelmed with rain this past year.

A worker at the incline said the Steelers crew had come and decorated the cars before their first game that weekend. That's a giant Terrible Towel hanging on the ceiling. Go Stillers!
(aren't we a partying crew?)

Atop Mt Washington at the top of the incline overlooking the Point, where the Three Rivers meet in downtown Pgh.

Two of my favorite people: Dave and his little sister, Chelle.

It was a misty rainy night...

...but still the city sparkled.
Look down the tracks at the other incline car coming up as we go down.
They counterbalance each other.

Weaving through the narrow streets of Route 51, we finally made it "home", exhausted but happy. 

I sit in our bed, with Dave sound asleep beside me, the night sounds of our hometown sifting through the screen in the bedroom window. I struggle to stay awake to record the events of this day, reminding myself that If I want to remember details, I need to write them down. But my eyes are just so heavy... Zzzzzz.

DAY 2 Revisiting our childhoods in Pittsburgh. Friday September 11, 2026:

The Three Little Girls in front of the fireplace
on Old Clairton Road.

Good Morning, Pittsburgh! 

After a nourishing breakfast of toasted Thomas’ English Muffins housing pools of Land O’Lakes butter, we loaded into the car and drove to Castle Shannon Antiques Mall. Mom and I used to visit this place when we lived here as adults together. Same place. Same walls. Some of the same antiques. 

My sisters and I gathered trinkets. 

Dave waited in the car.

Trekking to the Antiques haunts.

Our trusty chauffeur took us next to Daniel's Hardware. This place has seriously not changed in fifty years! Maybe longer. Thank you Lord, for keeping it the same. The clerk told us the owners died fairly recently and they weren't sure if the next gewneration could keep it going. The roof leaks, and it needs some TLC. I reached in my pocket for the only cash I had. I gave her a $20 bill and told her to give it to the owner to start the new roof fund so it could remain. It represents the time in America when we didn't order our tools and goods with the touch of a finger and pick it up at our front door. Mom taking me to Daniel's represents rows and rows of possibility as I imagined what I could make with all those bins of screws and nails and striups of balsa wood and paint.

Our handsome chauffeur.

Afterwards we drove the few miles to Pleasant Hills, our old stomping grounds. The hills feel less pleasant on old lady legs.

First to the Arboretum, where innumerable varieties of trees gather in safety. When I was in 5^th Grade I was chosen to give a speech in that field wrapped in trees, at our annual school hike on Arbor Day. Funny how one remembers when they are "chosen" as children. Our kids in Utah are learning the reverence for the Great Salt Lake the way we learned to revere trees in PA. 

Pleasant Hills Arboretum.

Next, we stopped at Pleasant Hills Library, the old stone edifice that housed our imaginations as kids. Mostly we wanted to smell the books. But the whole place was a step back in time.

This Library was a safe place for us as kids.

The beloved children's section is still tucked down in the basement.

Back in the van, we drove up Old Clairton Road, past the house where the old man handed out whole dimes for Halloween, and the Barton's house on the right, who were rich. And the Stoops', Shattings and Kotsko's. We made Dave slow the car as we passed our house, commenting on that time the car almost rolled off the wall on the side of our driveway, remembering that Thursday was our designated burning day when we carried the trash down to the incinerator in the back yard and burned what would burn. We lamented the loss of the old crabapple tree and giant evergreen in front of the kitchen window.

The houses were terraced into the hillside,
with a steep drop off next to our driveway.
The Pontiac Rocket never knew that garage. It was filled with stuff.

Libby and I shared the bedroom with the window in the dormer.
I recall the comforting sound of traffic on Old Clairton Road lulling me to sleep
through the open window in the summer. No one had air conditioning then, 
except people who were rich. We were rich, just not in the money department.

I can hear the screen door slapping shut.

The memories rushed like water and our thirst was unquenchable. But the traffic behind us forced Dave to roll on up to the corner of Old Clairton and National and down to Pleasant Hills Middle School. So many memories were made in that place. 

Then up the hill and down the road to the cluster of shops that used to include Rexall Drug, the Red Bull Inn, Stop ‘N Go and Bob’s Dist.  Bobs Distributer's was the only way we had to earn money as kids. You could get 2 cents for every glass pop bottle you returned. We scoured the streets and paths for bottles. On lucky days we earned enough to buy a candy bar. Down in the gully next to Bob’s is the VFW building where we took dance classes. If my legs would let me I could still to the "step- kick- ball- change" to Jingle Bell Rock, snapping our fingers low by our thighs in syncopated time to the music.

We drove on over to the Garden Apartments, where mom and Libby moved when I left for BYU.

AM and Lib in their Gunne Sax dresses, circa 1977.

Knowing time was slipping from under us, we decided to move on toward downtown, creeping through the Liberty Tunnel. Usded to be we counted the lights above us in that long tunnel. If there wasn't any traffic we could hold our breath, touch the roof of the car and make a wish. If you could make it to the end of the tunnel without breathing the wish would come true. Never worked for me... but it's a long tunnel. 

Lib tried unsuccessfully to make it to the end of the tunnel without breathing. Her asthmadd

Emerging like Dorothy in the emerald City, we came out from the dark tunnel to sunlight sparkling off the rivers. Three rivers converging at the Point. Used to be the air was too smoggy to see anythning. Steel mills lined the rivers. Now the mills are closed and the sparkle is back as God must have intended. We wove our way to the Heinz History Museum. This is one of my favorite sites to visit in Pittsburgh. But first it was a stop at Walmart to get a charging cord for my phone, a Steelers shirt for Libby, and rain jackets for AM and Lib because it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Heinz Museum blasted us right back to the Pittsburgh we knew and gave us deeper appreciation for the Pittsburgh we hadn’t known.

Lib revisits a Kennywood Park ride.

KIng Friday's Castle in Mr Rogers' Neighborhood.

One of the original Mr Rogers sweaters, knitted by his mom.

Hangin' with Fred.

Heinz is the only ketchup we'll buy.

Afterwards we drove to Scenery Hill to have dinner at the Century Inn. Nearly 50 years before we had gathered there with our dearest dears, celebrating our wedding luncheon. We were married in Washington DC, stopped at Century Inn for a quaint and glorious luncheon for  75 at this beautiful historic site.

Century Inn at Scenery Hill, PA

My mother hosted 75 of our dearest dears here,
nearly fifty years ago.
I still adore this man all these years later.
I know I'm lucky. 

On the way home we stopped at Target, because I needed a new pair of pants and some glue for the sole of my shoe.

Back home, we sat and reminisced, planned a flexible itinerary for tomorrow, and watched a TV special on the 25^th Anniversary of the tragedy on 9-11.

Climbing the wooden steps to bed, we raised the windows to let the scents and sounds of our childhood sweep over us as we drifgted off to sleep.