Summer of Love: Discovering Horton

About a year ago, it occurred to me that October 20, 2024, would mark what would have been my dad’s 100th birthday. (Unlike President Nelson, my dad only made it to 78.) I figured celebrating Horton McBride’s 100th would be a great excuse for a family reunion. I floated the idea and everyone agreed that it would be a good thing, except the timing was going to be difficult. With school, work, pto, etc., the chances of finding a time we could all get together were looking slim.

Thankfully, my ever-talented and organized daughter, Emily, took charge marshaling the troops and found a date that worked for almost everyone. The reunion happened two weeks ago in the mountains near Flagstaff. All but four were there. The weekend went off without a hitch. It was fun, touching, and meaningful. It was wonderful and I’m sure my parents were looking down, smiling.

As great as the reunion was, the lead-up to the event impacted me even more deeply.

My daughter volunteered to tackle writing her grampa’s personal history. We thought it was a sweet gesture and were happy to let her take it on. My expectation was that it would be a thirty-page, spiral-bound life summary that we could pass out at the reunion.

By now, I should know better than to underestimate my daughter.

She ended up with a 160 page book that represents a deep dive into Horton’s life. Emily dug into newspaper archives, school transcripts, personal interviews, phone calls, and family histories penned by relatives. Added to the mix was the discovery of mission letters and journals that hadn’t been looked at for decades – if ever. Photos from the early 1900s to the 2000s added flavor and insight to the text.

I spent much of the summer scanning letters and journals, discovering long-forgotten photos and documents. I even (miraculously) stumbled upon a treasure-trove of 8mm film dating from the ’50s and ’60s. Amazingly, some of the film boxes were still sealed from the lab. At one point, as I digitized those old reels, I realized that I was the only person on earth who had ever seen them.

We discovered memories of his growing up in the Great Depression, his naval service in WWII, serving an unconventional mission in Uruguay, and his quest to break out and be the first of his famlly to receive higher educaction. Early images of he and my mom and their four littles were gifts for us all to see.

My father didn’t talk much about his rough upbringing or his military service. He came from that “Greatest Generation” that was always doing the hard stuff and then looking forward. Much of what was discovered was completely foreign to me.

It was an emotional and spiritual experience, getting to know my father so much better. The tears were always close ot the surface. Both Emily and I felt a special closeness to him as we prepared to share his life with others. It also enhanced an already special relationship with my daughter.

The scripture in Malachi often came to my mind, “And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers.” (Malachi 4:6)

This is a passage I wrote about my dad for the book: From my perspective as I was growing up, my dad led an ordinary life: he went to work, came home, worked in the yard, served in the church, and built pinewood derbies that never were fast. He loved my mom and cared for her through thick and thin. He raised four children, saw all four of us to the temple and all four of us onto missions. After Andy, the youngest, was sealed to his wife, I remember my dad turning to me in the temple and dramatically exhaling a sigh of relief that he had been carrying for thirty-two years. 

What I didn’t understand—until much later—was that his life was anything but ordinary. (Honestly, I didn’t know the extent of it until Emily pulled the book together.) His younger years were full of hardship and challenges that could have sent him down very different roads. He had plenty of reasons to be screwed up, yet I never heard him blame any problems on his struggles or upbringing. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been, and I owe him greatly. Dad was not a complainer. He didn’t dwell on the past but was always upbeat, moving forward. Though never rich to the things of this world, he led a rich, meaningful life. I miss him.

You know the expression by St. Francis of Assisi, ‘Teach the gospel, and if you must, use words’? That was my dad. He was a constant in a crazy world. My brother Dave and my mom’s health made things completely unpredictable, but Dad was the constant in our home and in our lives. And he never talked about it. I never saw him feeling sorry for himself. As an adult, I see better how that was how he showed his faith and hope in this life and the next. I couldn’t have had a better example or a better father.

Sometimes, Dad would have his hand in his pocket, jingling his keys, a habit that continued throughout his life. I remember one day that I saw my reflection in a store window, standing there with my hand in my pocket, jingling my keys. I was caught off guard by how much I resembled Dad, and I was okay with it.

Family history is more than just finding names and green temples. It is more than even ordinance work. It can also be about binding our hearts to our family – past and present.

What a joyous summer.

(Yes, that’s me. I look good in red.)