Saga of the Sanpitch Volume 17, 1985 - Sanpete County

It became apparent in the fall of 1867 that Karen was not well. Soon she was no longer able to care for
her family. Although Niels did all in his power to help her, Karen Christensen Tollestrup, born on a little Danish
farm, died on Christmas Eve in Gunnison, Utah.
Ricky was just ten years old when her mother died. She remembered her death with sorrow and often
told her own children how sad and lonely that Christmas Day had been.
Today when I cook Danish dumplings, frikadeller or sweet soup, I sometimes think of my lovely
greatgrandmother. Though her life was short in our valley--not even five years — she bequeathed much to
her many descendents0 When I stand before her grave, read her touching verse and remember her courage, I
want to say, "I love you, Karen."
Resources: Family records and Danish research.
The Gunnison Memory Book--1959
MY WORST OR BEST FOURTH OF JULY?
Halbert Greaves
1904 Herbert Avenue
Salt Lake City, UT 84108
Professional Division
First Place Personal Recollections
I do not know for sure how old I was. I do know I was old enough to be mischievous but not old enough
to have good sense, although I acquired some that day. I had persuaded some druggist to sell me small
amounts of two chemical powders and some capsules. Out of deference to parents who now have boys about
the age I was then, I shall refrain from naming the two chemicals even though my escapade was mild when
compared with dozens of exploits shown on TV every day.
I had been told by some other mischievous boy, I suppose, that the two powders, when mixed in a
capsule, would explode with a loud bang when thrown against a hard surface — like the cherry bombs we
hear occasionally. It was a "neat" way to scare girls or other young boys we didn't like. Or maybe even an
unsuspecting friend, just as a practical joke, of course — or as it proved to be for me, an impractical one.
So, with mischief in mind, I made my little bombs, maybe six or eight of them, a day or two before
the Fourth of July in 1919, give or take a year or two. Early on the morning of the Fourth, before the men of
the celebration committee had signaled with their annual cannon-shot boom that it was time to get up and
begin to celebrate, I crawled out of my bed, which was almost as big as my bedroom. My trusting parents had
permitted me to lay a crude board platform under a backyard apple tree, place a cot on the boards and cover
the entire space with a makeshift canvas "tent" that allowed me to have all the cool, fresh night air and all the
privacy a young boy could want.
The cool night air? Ah, yes, the night air even in July is more than cool in Ephraim, and on that morning
of July fourth when I got out of my snug bed a little before dawn, it was cold enough for me to wear a coat,
probably one left over from a suit one of my older brothers had outgrown.
I retrieved my little bombs from wherever I had hidden them, put them in the right front pocket of the
coat and took off to commit mischief.
My first and only target turned out to be an open bedroom window on the second floor of a house
close to the sidewalk, across the street and one lot west of our home. One of the family daughters, who
sometimes worked for my mother and who was several years older than I, slept in that bedroom,, I don't
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