He was part of what kept Malad alive. Swede gave of his time freely. He did a contest every summer, which sent finalists to Logan to participate in a regional contest. The competition varied from tug of war to sack races and from log sawing to other forms of pioneer competitions. It was incredible, but what made it so important was establishing a sense of pride in the valley.
In my high school years, he knew me as a scout. Swede was a merit badge counselor, but he knew me best when I tried out for American Legion's Boy's State Award in 1970 during my junior year. He liked me, and as a young man, he spoke highly of my interview at that time.
As a young teacher, Swede wrote a number of articles supporting the German program, and he also wrote about the beginnings of our German Exchange Program.
He never spoke about his service in World War II, but I will always wonder if the war haunted him like those experiences did for so many other veterans. He never talked about his experience, but no soldier I ever knew did.When he became very sick and was in the hospital. I sent him a "singing telegram." A girl in a bikini appeared at the hospital and sang a song to cheer him up at a time when things were going so poorly.
His passing was a sad day for me. It was a sad time for the town and for the valley. Nothing would be the same after that. No one was there to provide the things he did to maintain a sense of community, and the local paper will never be the same.
He was, in my opinion, a man who did much for others without taking very much credit.
His wife Deon was my English teacher during my sophomore year of high school. She was one of my favorite teachers, one who probably helped me the most in terms of writing and in terms of literature. As a result of her work and that of Mary Zundel, I became an English teacher with similar goals: to help students learn how to communicate and to motivate students to think.
Swede and Deon were two people in Malad Valley, who helped shape my life in ways that made a difference to me professionally.
During one moment, when Swede wrote an article, he taught me a bit about word usage and a lot about humility. Swede told me to use the word drastic, when describing something that decreased in value or in amount. Dramatic was all about an increase. When I implied what a great writer I was, having graduated from Idaho State, Swede immediately apologized for his interceding and said he graduated from this little Texas college. If I remember correctly, it was the University of Texas, but it might have been Texas A & M too. Either way, I learned to keep my mouth shut and learn from those who tried to teach me.
Swede was my friend. Sending that telegram was a pleasure for me. Receiving this note from him was something I will always treasure, because it was one of the last things I heard from him before his untimely passing.
They scattered his ashes on Elkhorn Mountain, the range above Power House Canyon. It is the first of the two pictures in this blog.
There isn't a time I don't pass that spot on I-15, that I don't think of him and the many things he did for me, for people in the valley, for readers who enjoyed his sense of humor.
And there isn't a time I don't look at the valley and remember what great things Swede did for people of Malad. He helped us maintain an identity as a town, and today's fast-moving world, that's a difficult job to do as well as he did.
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