Gospel Story Finder

In describing the last key to happiness, Elder Wirthlin told the story of one student in the graduating class, Emily Jensen. When Emily was 16, she was involved in a serious accident and lapsed into a coma. The accident and resulting coma changed her life. Emily, he said, had to relearn how to do everything—including how to eat, walk, and sit up.

By accomplishing her goal to graduate from college, Emily, Elder Wirthlin said, had demonstrated the fifth key to happiness: perseverance to the end. He said heroes are remembered because they persevere.

In Tempe, Arizona, a Church member asked his neighbor if he would like help creating a family tree to show his ancestry. The neighbor accepted. The member helped the neighbor add the names of his parents and grandparents in FamilySearch. They linked to information already available, and before long the neighbor had a fan chart showing five generations of his family. This led the man to have an interest in the gospel and eventually to baptism and taking the names of his ancestors to the temple.

When I read the article “Darrell, His Mission, and Me” (May 1993), it made me do a lot of thinking. My brother left to go on his mission to North Carolina on July 28. I’ve never really gotten along with him because we’re five years apart. But I started writing him letters, and I feel a lot better about our relationship because he knows a lot more about my feelings. I’m really grateful for the article.
Becky BeldenColumbia, Tennessee

I promise you young men that if you will commit and prepare to serve a mission, it will be the most rewarding and exciting experience of your lives. Yes, there will be many and varied experiences—yes, even humorous experiences, like the elder who shared with me how he and his companion got on the bus, and as they sat down, in the seat in front of them was a grandfather with a young grandson who was having a temper tantrum. Missionaries being as ingenious as they are, these two elders decided they would see what they could do to quiet the little boy down and help the grandfather.
The boy had a baseball cap on. The elders proceeded to take the cap off his head and made a gesture like they threw it out of the window, but instead they quickly hid it under their seat. They then told the boy, as he felt his head, that if he wished hard enough he could wish it back on his head. The boy looked at his grandpa, wondering what was going on, and as he did, the elders quickly put the cap back on his head. The boy immediately felt the cap on his head, took it off, looked at it again, and then proceeded to throw it out the window, saying, “Do it again, Grandpa!” I think the elders got off at the next stop.

Steven Brantzeg is seven years old, and he can read well. But even when he was four, people thought he could read. You could ask him to find the story of Jonah in his Bible, and he could turn right to the page. You could ask him to find the stories of Joseph and his eleven brothers or Lehi and his journey to the promised land, and he could show you right where they are found in his set of the scriptures. Most of his friends at Primary could do the same thing. How?
As part of Sharing Time in the Valley View Sixth Ward in Salt Lake City, where Steven and his family attend church, children were told many of the stories from the Bible and the Book of Mormon. Then their teachers helped them to find the pages where those stories are found in their own scriptures. The children marked those pages in a way that would remind them of the stories. On pages 10 and 11 in Steven’s Bible, for example, you will find pictures of an ark, a cloud raining drops of water, and a birthday cake with six candles. Even before he could read, Steven could tell you about the building of the ark and the rain that came for forty days and nights when Noah was six hundred years old. He could turn right to the page too! When the project in Primary was completed, Steven and his mom and dad, Annette and George Brantzeg, continued to read stories from the scriptures and to mark them in Steven’s copies.

Money, or the lack of it, became a major issue. My mom worked two jobs. When my best friend wanted me to go shopping, I was too ashamed to tell her we barely had enough money for food—let alone clothes.
Seeing how bad I felt, my mom taught herself to sew and made me a few outfits. As good as her intentions were, none of the outfits turned out very well. She made me a pair of pants that were not only too short, but they were such a bright color that I felt self-conscious. As much as I didn’t want to wear them or any of my homemade clothes, I also didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings.
The day I wore those pants to school still stands out in my mind as one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. Mike, one of the most popular guys at school, always took time out of his busy schedule to make fun of my homemade outfits. The day I wore those pants I gave not only Mike but everyone else something to laugh about.

The Lowell family came to the community under unusual circumstances. Brother Lowell had just finished his doctorate degree at BYU and was searching for a job. “I knew I wanted to coach swimming because Cal was in swimming. He showed talent as a youngster, and all I really wanted to do was help him develop it. I wanted to find a job that would allow me to spend time with my son.”
But after graduation Brother Lowell was 50 and unemployed. He’d been fasting and praying about finding a job and worrying particularly about his older son Ron who was still on a mission. As he sat at the kitchen table reading a swimming magazine, a small classified ad caught Brother Lowell’s attention. It described a coaching position available in a desert town 150 miles southeast of Los Angeles. Every detail seemed to be describing him. “It was like a hand came down on my shoulder, and I had to get up and call the number. I figured that an ad in a national magazine would already be filled, but I knew I had to call just the same. I told the man who answered the phone, ‘You may think I’m crazy, but I think the Lord wants me to come to Indio and coach swimming. I’m a Mormon, and I think that I’m being told that that’s what I should be doing.’ The man said, ‘I don’t think you’re crazy; I’m a Mormon, too!’” Brother Joe Rile, the man Brother Lowell had phoned, was on the board of directors for a private swim club in Indio. Soon the whole Lowell family was relocated.

During the last general conference, a relatively insignificant thing caught my attention. It was a necktie! As a choir of young boys and girls was singing, one of the TV cameras happened upon a young boy in the choir. He thought he saw himself on the television monitor but perhaps wasn’t completely sure. So this is what he did: by wiggling his tie almost unnoticeably, he knew—yes—it was really him!
And now to you, my young friend with the tie, yes, it is you. You and the millions like you, if you prepare well, will be the faithful mothers and fathers in the Church and the Lord’s future leaders. You will be the teachers and leaders that will continue to establish the Church throughout the world. You will probably want to look in the mirror periodically and remind yourselves of the great mission that lies before you, and perhaps you might even want to wiggle your tie just to remind yourself of your important mission ahead. May you stand straight and noble in your callings.

Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared a childhood experience that impressed upon him the importance of a loving family. When he and his brothers were boys, their mother had radical cancer surgery that made it very painful for her to use her right arm. With a family of boys, there was a lot of ironing, but as his mother ironed, she often stopped and went into the bedroom to cry until the pain subsided.
When Elder Christofferson’s father realized what was happening, he secretly went without lunches for almost a year to save enough money to buy a machine that made ironing easier. Out of his love for his wife, he set an example of nurturing within families for his boys. Of this tender interaction, Elder Christofferson said, “I was not aware of my father’s sacrifice and act of love for my mother at the time, but now that I know, I say to myself, ‘There is a man.’”4

It was the year 1975, and I was serving in the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission as a young missionary. During my first month in the mission, the zone leaders held an activity to demonstrate a gospel principle. Each missionary in the zone was blindfolded, and we were told that we were to follow a path leading to the cultural hall. We were to follow the voice of one particular leader, a voice we heard before starting to walk. However, we were warned that during the journey, we would hear several voices that would try to confuse us and get us to stray from the path.
After some minutes of hearing noises, talking, and—in the midst of it all—a voice that said, “Follow me,” I felt confident I was following the right voice. When we arrived at the cultural hall of the chapel, we were asked to take off our blindfolds. When I did so, I realized that there were two groups and that I was in the group that had followed the wrong voice. “It sounded so much like the right one,” I said to myself.
That experience of 39 years ago had a lasting effect on me. I told myself, “Never, ever again follow the wrong voice.” Then I told myself, “Yes, Lord, I will follow Thee.”

Seth is running a dairy farm for his grandfather, who is in the hospital. When Grandpa’s best cow has trouble calving, Seth doesn’t know where to turn. His father is busy with the roundup, and Seth is too small to deliver the calf himself. Mrs. Bowers, the telephone switchboard operator, tells him to pray, but he doesn’t even know how to do that. Then two LDS missionaries come calling. One of them, a rancher, delivers the calf and teaches Seth how to pray.
The next two weeks seemed to fly by with the help of Elder Wood, the tall young man from the city, and Elder James, the rancher. Elder Wood kept the house spic and span, and Elder James helped Seth in the barn. As the missionary and the boy worked side by side, Elder James taught him more about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“Elder James,” Seth said one morning as they milked, “I like to pray, and it makes me feel good. But how do I know if I get an answer?”
Elder James continued to milk Sweetie with strong but gentle hands. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there are several ways. Mostly you start with faith that you’re really talking to your Heavenly Father. Then you learn to know when you get an answer. Some people just feel good, some feel peaceful, and some get ideas. Every person is different, and different problems sometimes require different kinds of answers.”
Seth thought about it. He did feel peaceful when he prayed, and sometimes new thoughts did seem to come into his mind.
Elder James continued. “When I was young, I liked to listen to the testimonies of prophets. I felt that if they could get direct answers to prayer, then I could too.” He carried his bucket of milk to the barn door, covered the bucket, and picked up a clean one. Then he leaned over the stall and looked at the boy for a minute. “Just keep praying and listening for answers,” he said. “It’s kind of like milking. At first it’s hard. You just have to keep trying and gaining strength. Soon, real soon, you get good at it.”
Seth finished milking his cow and stood up. He stretched and turned to the man. “Who were those prophets you were talking about—the ones who got answers to prayer?”
Elder James moved his milking stool next to Seth’s. “Sit down, boy,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about Joseph Smith.”
Seth listened intently. The story he heard filled him with amazement. A boy not much older than he was had actually talked to God and had seen His face! “Do you really believe that?” Seth asked.
“I really believe it.”
“This is important! Why doesn’t everyone know?”
Elder James shook his head sadly. “Not everyone believes that God would talk to a young boy. But He did, and great things have happened as a result.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, Joseph Smith received a record of people who lived on this continent hundreds of years ago. He translated the record and had it published in a book.”
“I’d like to see that book,” Seth said eagerly. “Do you have a copy?”
“Yes I do, and I’ll give it to you.”
Seth couldn’t even speak for a moment. Books were very expensive in Wyoming in the 1920s. “Th-Thank you,” he stammered. “Will you tell me more about it, please?”
They moved over to the last two cows, and as they milked, Elder James told him story after story from the Book of Mormon. Seth couldn’t seem to hear enough. “What happened to all those people?” Seth asked as they strained the milk.
“Well, the Nephites were all killed in battle. Some of the Indians in North and South America are what’s left of the Lamanites.”
Seth stared at him. “Really? Do they know that they’re the Lamanites?”
Elder James laughed. “Some—those who have read the book—do. It touches something inside of them. It’s very close to the traditions of their fathers.”
After the Elders left, Seth had so much to think about that he forgot to call his family. When the telephone rang, he jumped.
“Are you all right, Seth?” his mother’s worried voice asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just forgot to call.”
“Is everything ready for Grandpa?”
“Everything’s ready.”
Grandpa was coming home from the hospital the next day. Seth and the Elders had made sure that everything was clean and shiny. Elder Wood had even baked a cake, and it sat on the pantry shelf, covered with a clean cloth.
“We’ll be over after supper tomorrow,” Mom promised. “It’ll be good to see you, son. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Mom,” he said, and his voice got husky. Up till now, he’d been too busy to be homesick.
“I love you, Seth,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
When Grandma’s Model T came up the dusty road, Seth was waiting on the porch. It was wonderful to see them! Grandma bustled around and helped Grandpa out of the car. Seth got hugs from both of them before he carried in their bags and parcels.
“My, it’s good to be home!” Grandma said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep or a good meal since we left.”
“Me either!” Grandpa whispered weakly and chuckled.
Seth saw the twinkle in Grandpa’s eye and felt comforted. Grandpa was still Grandpa, even if his body seemed different. Seth helped get Grandpa settled in bed, then pulled a chair up to the bed and began his report on the farm.
“Sweetie’s giving more milk than ever!” he announced proudly. “And her calf is going to be as good as she is.” Then he told Grandpa about the missionaries helping with the farm.
“Who are these missionaries?” Grandpa asked with a scowl. “I don’t like strangers messing around with my animals.”
“They’ll be here this afternoon, and you can meet them. You’ll like them,” Seth promised. He ran out of the room and returned with his Book of Mormon. “While you’re waiting, you can read this book they left me. It’s about Jesus Christ.”
Grandpa continued to scowl. “It’s not the Bible! I don’t want to read it!”
“It’s really interesting,” Seth said, ignoring the scowl. “There’s a story about a good king named Benjamin. He worked as a farmer so the people wouldn’t have to support him.”
Grandpa’s gray brows came together, and Seth could tell that he was thinking. “Well, that does sound interesting. It just might be a good book—but it’s not the Bible!”
“They believe and use the Bible, too,” Seth explained. Then he left the bedroom so that Grandpa could rest. As he shut the door, he saw Grandpa opening the cover of the book.
(To be concluded)

Kim Ho Jik took a deep breath. It was his first day studying and teaching at a university in the United States.
Learning was important to Ho Jik. He wanted to learn as much as he could about nutrition. Then he could make life better for people in South Korea, where he was from.
Ho Jik carried a box of books up some steps to his new office.
“Hello,” said a man from the office next door. “I’m Oliver. I’m studying here too.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ho Jik said.
Weeks passed. Ho Jik and Oliver became friends. They talked about what they were learning. Ho Jik noticed that Oliver never drank or smoked. He didn’t work on Sundays either. I wonder why, Ho Jik thought.
One day Oliver gave Ho Jik a book. It was about the Articles of Faith. “This book tells about what I believe,” Oliver said. “Let me know if you want to learn more.”
Ho Jik finished the book in less than a week. Oliver gave him another book called the Book of Mormon. Ho Jik read it quickly too. He started going to church with Oliver. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be baptized.
Soon it was Oliver’s last day at the university. Ho Jik saw him in the hallway. “I believe God brought you here for a special reason,” Oliver said. “But not just so you can teach your people about nutrition. You need to teach them about the gospel too.”
Ho Jik thought about Oliver’s words for a long time. Finally he decided to be baptized. He was baptized in the same river where Joseph Smith was baptized 122 years earlier!

While he served in the military, Elder Paul’s testimony was strengthened through a more intense study of the Book of Mormon and prayer.
“After I received my own testimony, I put a maxim in my life to always put the Lord first,” Elder Paul says. “I know that when I put the Lord first, the rest will fall into place.”
Elder Paul also says that this increased testimony helped him focus on the things that were important to him in life. He made a commitment to marry a young woman who was a member of the Church, raise his children in the gospel, and focus on the right things.
Elder Paul proved firm in those commitments. He married Helga Klappert on April 2, 1964, in the Bern Switzerland Temple, and they raised their three children in the gospel. His focus to do what is right continues.

When our children were young, our family spent a few days at a beautiful lake. One afternoon some of the children put on life jackets before jumping off a deck and into the water. Our youngest daughter watched with hesitation, carefully observing her siblings. With all the courage she could muster, she plugged her nose with one hand and jumped. She immediately popped up and with a bit of panic in her voice yelled, “Help me! Help me!”
Now, she was not in any mortal danger; her life jacket was doing its job, and she was floating safely. We could have reached out and pulled her back on the deck with little effort. Yet from her perspective, she needed help. Perhaps it was the chill of the water or the newness of the experience. In any case, she climbed back onto the deck, where we wrapped her in a dry towel and complimented her on her bravery.

One 92-year-old great-grandmother has produced several hundred blankets for the victims. In her case, both the creator and receiver have been blessed. As her son admired her handiwork, she asked, “Do you think anyone will ever use one of my blankets?” A letter from a young mother in Louisiana answers that question:
“I live in Louisiana, and I go to a local health unit for my children. While I was there, they gave me some outfits, diapers, wipes, and two beautiful baby blankets. One blanket has a yellow backing with footprints and handprints on the front, and the other blanket is tan with zebras. They are beautiful. My four-year-old loves the zebra one, and of course my seven-month-old can’t say much. I just wanted to say thank you to you and your Church members for your generosity. God bless you and your family.”

One day I came home from school very sad because I had to write a story and I didn’t know what to write. My mom and I talked about how Heavenly Father could help me if I prayed and asked for help. My mom and I prayed together. The next day I was able to write a story, and it was easy. I was so happy. I told my mom that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. The words just came to me when it was time to write!
Evan N., age 8, Washington

During the summer of 2003, I was in Michigan, USA, researching my great-great-uncle Robert Hall. At the end of my trip, I revisited a cemetery I had been to 20 years earlier.
When I had visited the cemetery before, I noticed flowers on one of the headstones with the last name Hall. This time I wrote a note, dated it, and laminated it to protect it from the weather. Then I prayerfully left the note at the headstone, hoping that someone who could help me learn more about Robert Hall would find it. I returned home to California hopeful but skeptical that anything would come of this note.
I prayerfully left a note at the headstone, hoping that someone who could help me would find it.
A week later I received a letter from a distant cousin named Deke Bentley.
“Yesterday I had a strange experience,” he wrote. “At 3:00 p.m. I was headed to buy strawberries when I decided to stop by the Plains Road Cemetery to check out my ancestors’ graves. I had not been there for several years. Next to the graves was your postcard.”
Deke had gone to the cemetery the same day I had left the note. I called him immediately. During our conversation I found out that he lived in Hillsdale, more than 50 miles (80 km) from the cemetery.
A few months later I eagerly returned to Michigan to visit Deke. He told me he had relatives buried in the cemetery directly across from his home, and he asked if I would like to go there. He told me that the cemetery had four gravestones of Halls, two that he knew nothing about.
At the cemetery, Deke showed me the gravestones. The two he didn’t know about belonged to Martin and Anna Hall. I hadn’t brought my records, but I distinctly remembered having researched a Martin Hall.
We rushed to the county courthouse an hour before it closed, hoping a death record would identify Martin’s parents. It did! Martin’s father was Robert Hall! The Holy Ghost confirmed to me that my long search had ended.
Deke, not a member of the Church, said finding Robert Hall seemed “almost spiritual.” I smiled, knowing that the Spirit had led me.
“You may have been disappointed that you didn’t leave your note 20 years ago,” Deke said, “but the fact is that I moved to Hillsdale just three years ago!”
This experience was a lesson to me that family history is indeed part of God’s work and that He leads us in our righteous efforts.

My mother also taught me to be honest, even if it meant doing hard things. Our neighbor grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables. Sometimes his fruit would grow on our side of the fence. Once I picked some of this fruit and took it to my mom. She looked at me and said, “That doesn’t belong to us.”
I couldn’t believe it. I said, “What do you mean? It’s on our side of our fence!” Again she said, “That doesn’t belong to us.” Then she took my hand, and we walked to our neighbor’s house. We asked for forgiveness for taking his fruit. My mother said that if we wanted something, we needed to get it honestly.

My priests quorum was pretty much like any other quorum. We had an adviser, inspiring lessons by the bishop, assistants to the bishop, and then the rest of us. Our ward was neither huge nor small, but we had a number of members who seldom or never came to any meetings. In one particular quorum meeting we spent a lot of time discussing those young men who had not been to church in a while. Brother Wheeler, our quorum adviser, had prepared a list.
When I was young, many considered me shy and quiet, and I did not especially go out of my way to make noise or be seen. I was not the first to volunteer to visit the young men on Brother Wheeler’s list. All he was asking was for us to pick a name, make a friendly visit, and invite them to our upcoming weekly activities.
Hands went up when Brother Wheeler called out names from this list. He said it was a plus if you were already friends, neighbors, or schoolmates. I started to feel guilty as the list grew smaller and smaller. Finally there was one name left. The other boys were chatting about their plans of how they were going to take care of this assignment. Brother Wheeler looked at the name on the list and then at me. I lifted my hand. Smiling, he wrote down the boy’s name and sketched a map for me. He said the family had moved in a while ago and a visit could really benefit the young man.
We lived in an area of southeast Idaho where it was a mixture of farms and homes. Many of the parents commuted to work in town. As in many communities like this, we were fairly close-knit, and everyone pretty much knew everyone else. But I didn’t recognize the name I was given, nor did anyone else in our quorum.
Sunday passed, and I considered the name I’d received. Monday came and went. I still considered. Tuesday passed, and I considered with increasing gravity. How was I going to approach a total stranger and ask him to come to church?
Wednesday came, and my consideration began to change into worry. The week was already passing by, and all I could consider was a gut feeling of dread. This young man I was to visit had never been seen at church, he had never been seen at Scouts, he had never been seen at school, he had never even been seen, period.
The school bus dropped me off at my house. I pulled out the folded note I had been carrying with me since Sunday. The young man’s house was about two-and-a-half miles from mine. I wanted to get it over with and release this burden. I told my sister where I was going and, with grim determination, headed out.
Imagination fed on anticipation. I pictured a family where the dad answered the door with a shotgun in his hands and vicious dogs were ready to attack. I walked half a mile. I pictured a family that only spoke Russian. I walked along. I pictured a family with so much wealth that they only wore tuxedos and ball gowns. Was this how Nephi and Sam felt while they were on their way to get the brass plates? Or worse, perhaps this is how Laman and Lemuel felt. Suddenly, there I was in front of the house.
I rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and an older man stood there. He looked at me. “Hello,” he said.
A rush of relief came over me. He was not holding a shotgun, he spoke English, and he was not wearing a tuxedo. “Uh, can uh …” I looked at my note. I couldn’t remember his name. “… Bill …” I couldn’t think straight. “… play?” I finally blurted out. I felt like a little kid. What kind of word had I used? “Play?”
The man looked very surprised.
“Is Bill … available?” I corrected myself. Did I read the map wrong? Was I at the wrong house? “Does a Bill, Billy, or even a William live here?”
The man’s expression changed from confusion to smiling enlightenment. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in. You must be from the ward. Brother Wheeler called last week and told me someone would be coming.”
An entire flood of relief swept through me. I followed the man through the front room, past the kitchen, down a hallway, to a bedroom. The house was neat and modest. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. The Ensign magazine sat on the kitchen table, opened. I saw scriptures on the shelf. “But these people never come to church,” I thought with more than a touch of confusion. And what about Bill, who was a total hermit apparently—and a very lazy one, because it appeared he was still sleeping.
The man softly knocked. “Billy?” he said as he gently opened the door.
Instantly everything was explained. I felt so small. A wheelchair and a hospital bed sat in the center of the room.
An emaciated boy lay there staring out the window. He turned his head to look at us. His eyes widened. “Help me sit up, Father. Do I have company? What is your name?”
I did not have to worry about carrying the conversation; Billy was very good at assisting me with that. I returned regularly to his house for the next several weeks. I brought various games; he especially liked chess. I learned that he was actually a foster child and had not seen his birth parents for years. Billy’s disease was critical, and the older couple he was now with had taken him in so that he wouldn’t have to stay by himself in the hospital. He was a member of the Church but could only remember being baptized.
Brother Wheeler arranged for us to have our priests quorum meet for class at Billy’s home. His bed had been moved to the front room to help accommodate the extra visitors. Our bishop came and even helped bless the sacrament for Billy and his foster parents.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Over the past few months I had made a friend, and I had helped this friend make other friends in our quorum. I did not anticipate the phone call I received from the bishop later that week. He told me he had interviewed Billy and found him worthy to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Billy had asked the bishop if I could ordain him.
We held our priesthood meeting again at Billy’s house the following Sunday. I do not remember what I said during the ordination. I do remember Billy’s smile and the tears he was pushing back—the tears Brother Wheeler, the bishop, and all of us were pushing back.
A few weeks later, Billy was not available for “playing” anymore. His condition had worsened, and he spent most of the time in the hospital. About six months from my first meeting with Billy, he died.
Now what I remember most about Billy is not what I did for him on my visits, but what he did for me. A young man whose name I came to know from a simple list had become one of the most treasured memories of my youth.

I can remember in my high school in Portland, Oregon, two contrasting young people. One was a young man named Steve Troy. Steve as a freshman was six foot six, weighed 220 pounds. He was tall, had dark, curly hair, and was a marvelous athlete. In the course of his high school days, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. I guess everybody would like to be a Steve Troy in high school. Then there was Robert Calderwood. Robert was five foot two, wore glasses, carried his briefcase to school, got straight A’s, and all of the other kids asked him for help with their homework. Do you have any Robert Calderwoods in your school?
Now it is interesting to see what happened to those two young men some years later. Both of them served in the navy. Steve Troy came back and, still a fine person, wound up working in a small shop owned by his father. The interesting thing is to see what happened to Robert Calderwood, the ugly duckling, who emerged some time later, graduated from college, and became a banker. The last I heard he was vice-president of one of the large banks in Portland and was married and had a fine family; he is a person who truly has emerged, who didn’t give up because he had been the ugly duckling at Franklin High School.