Wilderness Baby

Family Story: my birth

[The above photo was taken on October 4th, 1953–shown is my mom, dad, sister, and myself as a baby.] I was born in the greatest place on earth: Alaska.

Not the State of Alaska… Just Alaska.

On that fateful day when I was about to arrive, my mother was baking bread in the cabin she and my father had built. It was located about twenty miles outside of Anchorage, and it was nestled on a hillside overlooking the forest and the Alaskan mountain range. Our homestead was an Alaskan land grant or patent. Our family lived as pioneers but we were not the only ones. There were miners and hunters with the skills and dedication to help this land and newly-arriving people grow closer, stronger and to fight for statehood. Being born in the “territory”, my birth announcement said, ‘One more sourdough’.

My parents were “old school”, in the sense that they had lived and survived throughout their lives during some of the most turbulent times in history. They were raised to overcome adversity. Raised by stern parents who believed that playing instruments was cultural, to speak multiple languages was necessary, and to know how to live off the land was imperative. They had no telephones, no televisions, no computers. They were raised from birth with Godly moral values and trained to fight injustice. They began learning life skills at an early age, and more advanced survival skills as they grew older. This is what was the foundational strength of my family’s character… my great grandfather’s obituary read: hunter, teacher, builder, railroad-man, soldier. Our family thrived on wanting to learn and to learn was to succeed. Our family used these well-practiced traits throughout my own lifetime.

Simplicity was more often a practiced principle. Not by necessity, but rather it helped you realize your limitations. Because as you age, and take on more difficult and different challenges, you begin to realize every challenge is different, and you have to learn to overcome multiple decision points in order to accept the best solution for that moment in time. Like a diamond, each facet you develop makes you more brilliant.

Several family traits proved invaluable the morning I was about to be thrust on earth at fifty miles an hour. Born on the bump, screaming with the clan.

My mother often told us stories of the early family days following the war in Europe. My mother was a skilled survivor, and I was glad. The day was July 12th, the year was 1953. This is the beginning of her story, essentially my story as well.

Even living alone in the wooded mountains, miles from any neighbors, my mom was secure in her abilities. She always kept a loaded rifle and shotgun near the only entrance of their two room cabin. She proudly admitted that her and my father practiced shooting on a weekly basis. Her weapon was always in her purse holster. It was a snub nosed .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. In their cabin, the .30 Caliber carbine rifle hung over the front door, and the 12 gauge shotgun was leaned up behind the hinges on the right side, in the corner.

On this particular day, my mom was nearing her thirty-ninth week of her pregnancy. She recalled opening her oven and lifting out two large bread pans that had finished baking. She instantly felt a sharp pelvic contraction. It was so extreme that she was brought down to her knees. Immediately, she rolled on her side to catch her breath. Laying on her side, she had two more fairly quick, painful cramps and she felt fluid running down her leg and soaking her dress.

Feeling under her dress she said she felt the top of a head and hair. It wasn’t protruding, just crowning. At that moment, she realized time was of the essence. She carefully pulled herself up using the cabinet for leverage, and grabbed or lifted her nearly four year old daughter (my sister, Norma) up from the floor where she was playing. Quickly pulling her purse over her shoulder, and checking that the keys were in her purse, she stepped out of the cabin into the sunlight. She hurriedly put the front door brace into the lintel slots on the large door frame. She then caught the long concrete spike nail hanging from a string and inserted it into the hole drilled to lock in the brace because, in her terrible discomfort, she absentmindedly thought that a bear or moose would smell the fresh bread and decide to try to break into the cabin. It was a simple measure, but worked well as their home’s makeshift lock.

Stumbling quickly towards the car, holding fast to Norma’s small hand, she made a beeline for the driver’s door. Opening the door and half pushing/lifting her young one, she felt the pressure pushing below. She climbed in and put the keys into the ignition. She noticed her hands were shaking. Mentally she was judging the time it would take to get to help. As she pushed in the clutch and started the car, she pulled Norma close. Then in a practiced mental game, her mind clicked off the checklist in her head. The car always had more than a half tank of gas, check. Next, there was the box of supplies in the trunk, with three blankets and two plastic wrapped sleeping bags, check. Her husband, Frank’s, two canvas tool bags and car jack were put back in the trunk last night, check. Under the passenger seat, she knew there was a flashlight, an ax, and a military issued medical kit, check, check and check. Quickly looking over her shoulder, she saw her husband’s deployment bag and cold weather parka.

The car was rolling onto the rutted driveway towards civilization. Her brain kept focusing on whether the batteries in the flashlight were still good. Had they checked them recently? Maybe they should carry a new pack of batteries from now on. This nagging concern kept her from worrying about her immediate situation. That is, until her legs cramped and she struggled through the searing pain and burning, knowing the baby was trying to push out. Pushing in the clutch one last time to shift into third gear, she thought about the nice, newness of the car she was driving. It was Manuel Rivera’s (my dad’s best friend) 1952 Buick Sedan. Their 1950 Chevy coupe was getting a new head gasket so they borrowed Manuel’s car. Thank God for that because driving that beat up old Chevy would have been horrible right now.

She could only get about ten miles down the road, before having to stop, lift the hood, and fill the radiator with water before continuing for another nine or ten miles. She could almost hear my dad saying, “Betty, don’t turn off the engine, use gloves and pour water into the radiator or the motor ‘s block will crack. I’ve left the radiator cap off so don’t put it back on”.

Trying to hurry down the rutted dirt trail, she had a clear mental picture of where to drive right and high, to miss a deep hole, or roll slowly around a curve to crawl over a protruding boulder. As she straightened out from that curve she knew she had gone about five miles, and could push the gas pedal to accelerate to forty miles an hour into an open down-hill stretch. The morning light was blinding her from under the visor, but she kept focusing on the trail in front of her. In the distance, she thought she saw some movement in the trees. She hoped it wasn’t a herd of elk. They could be dangerous.

No, it was a US Army Jeep coming out of the woods into one of the clearings. It was driving up the road towards her. She hoped they wouldn’t turn off onto one of the many trails going to some of the Army unit’s training camps. Frantically, she started honking her horn and flashing her lights. They were at least a mile and a half away. Don’t turn off, she prayed silently. As she focused on the Jeep, she saw they were speeding up towards her. They, too, then started clicking on their lights from high to low beam. They saw her. Thank you, God.

Within minutes my mom saw it was Manuel and my dad driving up in the Jeep. Both men jumped out of the jeep before it had fully stopped. Running at breakneck speed, the men had their guns out and were screaming, “Was it a bear?” , “Was it a mountain cat?” “No, No” said my mother; “The baby is coming.” My dad ran to the driver’s door and opened it to help her out. His first comment was, “My God, Betty, you’re sweating to death.” She had to laugh and say, “No honey, my water broke, but, yeah, I’m sweating too”.

As my dad helped her into the back seat, she let out a sharp deep cry and sucked in air. She was really feeling this pain and told them to please hurry. At this point, Manuel popped the trunk and got out a sleeping bag and blanket. He threw them to my dad in the back seat and quickly jumped behind the wheel. My dad was trying to make her comfortable by placing the sleeping bag behind her. “Hold on”, Manuel shouted, as he drove like a crazy man through the forest with all its ruts, barely missing or maneuvering over the tree roots. Manuel reached across the front seat and grabbed Norma by the shoulder and pulled her close to him. He spoke softly in Spanglish with his heavy soothing accent, “No need to cry poketo, Mama is okay” .

Less than three miles further along, Manuel hit a small boulder which jolted everyone’s position and proceeded to bounce them four inches off the seats, up into the air. My mother landed hard and let out a piercing scream of pain. My dad screamed at Manuel, “You idiot, slow it down!” Norma started crying at the top of her lungs, scared that everyone was screaming. Manuel yelled at my dad for scaring little Norma. In the middle of all this commotion, my mom said in a loud authoritative calm voice, “Stop the car. Stop Now!”.

As they were breaking to a full stop, my mother told the two men, “I think the baby is out.” My dad lifted my mom’s dress and saw the head protruding and the shoulders moving slowly out as well. He put his hands down and holding the shoulders started pushing the baby back in. Well…he got slapped for that, as my mom doubled over grunting loudly, pushing more.

Drive faster!”, my dad screamed. “Ohhhh, God help us.” , Manuel screamed even louder. My dad asked, “Can’t you go faster?” Manuel answered “I’m doing almost sixty. In two or three minutes, we’ll be on the highway and we can drive faster.”

My mom started the death grab and soon was crushing her long fingernails deep into my dad’s forearms which were holding my shoulders. It was the leverage she needed and one final push later little ole me slid right on out. Manuel was yelling and babbling: “Frankie grab him.”; “Don’t drop him.”; “Put the baby on her lap.“; “Look, there’s a penis.” My dad just yelled out to no one in particular, “Keep your eyes on the road, will you?” He told my mom to hold the baby and lifted his parka onto her lap. She loosely wrapped me in the fur. All of a sudden, Norma was looking over the seat and saw me. She saw all the blood and slime and screamed, “BAAAAYYBEEE”. Instantly, I broke out with my own newborn cry-scream.

Manuel covered the last five miles through the treacherous mud-puddle pocked drive towards town, at a safe, but bumpy speed. Once arriving at the paved road, which was the Alaskan Highway (now called Col Glenn Highway), Manuel started driving at a much faster speed towards the main gate of the Elmendorf Air Base. Manuel pulled up and told the guards, “We have a woman and baby. They are in labor.” “Call the hospital to get them ready for us.” The guard asked if she was close to delivering, and the two men screamed: “Yes! The baby’s on her lap.” Manuel made a u-turn and headed out onto the highway, when my dad asked, “What are you doing?” He yelled, “Just drive through the gate”, but Manuel told him they just finished putting up the fence around the base. It would be quicker and easier to get to the clinic which was outside the fence by the Richardson Army training area.

The old hospital or clinic was down the highway another left onto a gravel road, about ten or twelve miles. Doing close to eighty, the Buick was heading towards the turn-off for the US Army Richardson roadway entrance. Making a left turn off the highway, they were heading into the dense woods, on a gravel training road. Five miles into the Army training grounds, there was a military police check point. Instead of stopping, they flashed their lights and my dad was hanging his head part way out of the open window, and waving his free hand at the guard and screamed, “Get out of the way. We are having a baby.”

Five long minutes later, my mother was still feeling the urge to push. Grunting, she doubled over. The bouncing ride had taken its toll. Panting, she grunted to release some pressure. I laid there wrapped in fur. Waiting for us at the small clinic-hospital was an entourage of medics, one doctor and a couple GI’s. Manuel pulled close to the entrance, which was lined up in the center of three attached white concrete block buildings. The buildings were attached to form the letter ‘H’. (Its now the vet clinic at JBER). As Manuel slammed on the brakes, a medic jerked open the passenger side door and my sister Norma let out a piercing scream, which acted as another catalyst for me to let loose with my own screaming cry. This pissed off my dad and Manuel. “Get a wheelchair”, both men shouted in near unison. Mom smiled and said to no one in particular, “I can get out by myself, just lift the baby as I scoot out.” My dad slipped out backwards and stepped out of the open door. Mom stayed close after handing me to him and scooted slowly across the seat, slipping out of the car. Immediately she grabbed me back. I was still comfortably wrapped in the fur-lined parka.

The ordeal took it’s toll on my mom. She was smiling but she had lost a lot of blood. As she leaned back against the car waiting for the medic to bring the wheelchair, no one noticed her weakness and loss of color in her face. A second later, she leaned back against the car fender, passed out and slid to the ground still clutching me. For more than a month, my mama and me lived in the back wing of the clinic. My mother never fully recovered from my birth. She was anemic throughout her life. Thinking about it now, I had made a pretty dysfunctional entry onto planet earth. It was kind of a rough landing, wouldn’t you say?

My Oliver Story – First Generation Americans

Part 1. Skeleton’s in the closet.

My father was a bastard son, born in 1924 on his great grandfather Samuel Ellsworth Oliver’s farm. His mother, my grandmother, Edith Celeste Payton, lived on the Iowa frontier when she became pregnant by her Irish boy friend.

Her parents, Frank Norman Payton and Ethel Farnsworth Oliver decided it would be best to send her away until the baby was born. Her younger sister followed suit three months later, but her child died at birth.

My grandmother boarded a train in south Chicago. She wore a loose cotton work dress to hide the small bump. Rather than be ridiculed and ostracized by school mates, she chose to leave just before she was showing, around the three month timeframe; September 1923.

Her beau remained behind in Linn County, and continued attending school in Cedar Rapids. In January, she received her last letter from him. It simply stated he was marrying an older woman in two weeks.

On 10 April 1924, my father was born Frank Norman Payton, after his grandfather in Iowa. He was delivered at the farm by his great grandmother Oliver. His birth certificate states place of birth, Putnam County Indiana, near Madison, on 10 April 1924. It also states mother; Edith C. Payton – born in Rantool Illinois, and father; Jay J. – born in Iowa. He lived on the farm for almost four years. His grapa Samuel raised him.

Samuel Ellsworth Oliver was a man, a real man. He was a timber logger at sixteen years old. At eighteen, grapa Oliver was a Railroad man, laying track and riding the rails as a load hand. He belonged to a close knit community of Irishmen who liked honest hard work. Saving every cent, he married his sweet heart. She was a feisty red headed Irish lass named Mary E., from the Morgan Clan. They bought a lovely 400 acres, and built their homestead farm.

On July 5th of 1898, my great grandfather Oliver enlisted for two years as a private with the 161st Indiana Volunteers, Company D, to fight with Teddy Roosevelts Rough Riders. He trained on horses for only three weeks, having know how to handle horses in harnesses on the farm and while working on the railroad as a laborer. His unit took a train to Florida, where they met up with Col Roosevelt. From there they ferried their equipment, men and horses to Cuba. My grapa returned as a Corporal after their battle of Havana against Spanish and Central American insurgents.

Roosevelt’s Raiders were credited with winning the Spanish-American War. My great grandfather was credited with staying alive. Nearly all the en were suffering from malaria. He returned to Mary and they raised a large family of eleven children; grapa’s great grandfather, John Oliver was an explorer following the Revolutionary War. He and two brothers travelled to the wilderness territory called Tennessee. They were the first white settlers in Cades Cove. (Now a Federal Park in the Appalachian Mountains).

John and James Oliver were two of twelve children who fought the British in Virginia and North Carolina. My great great grandfather Payton were there as well.

In Part 2. I’ll write about the arrival in the “Americas” in the 1600s. The Irish clans movements from the colonies into East and West Jersey in the Americas. How it was named from the Island south-west of England called Jersey. From 1660 until 1787, the colony was only called Jersey. Until after the 100 battles fought during the Revolution the new American colonists wrote the New Jersey Plan; to stop neighboring colonists from affirming their powers. In 1787 they became the third state of the Republic called New Jersey. Delaware was first and Pennsylvania as the probable capitol of the republic became the second state.

HISTORY MATTERS. My forefathers were there…at America’s birth.


I-M Karl W. Speights, a product of the experiment called America, the great melting pot. I believe in America’s openness, but I also believe it makes us vulnerable to terrorism.

I-M 1st generation Alaskan American. I was born in 1953, in the wilderness of the Alaskan Territory. My parents received a land grant, where they built a two-room cabin. My mother was French, born in SaarLouis, in the providence of Alscace-Lorrain. They married during WWII. Mom became a U.S. naturalized citizen on their way to Alaska.

I-M a believer in America FIRST.

I-M an eighth generation PATRIOT; served 24 years defending our liberties and ‘way of life’.

I-M for GOD, my country, and family.

I-M a Constitutional conservative Christian dedicated to the principles of child advocacy, and America’s Grass Roots movement. I believe the majority of Alaskans love America. In a lifetime of extensive travels, I’ve never found a better home.

I-M a 2nd Amendment advocate; hunter and gun owner. I fish and dip net too.

I-M your voice, and will effect change by making Alaskans’ voices heard. I will earn your respect.

I-M against funding countries who hate us.

I-M for term limits (2). I-M only running for two.

I-M against socialism’s cancel culture. “I don’t want us to lose America”.

I-M optimistic! Have hope, don’t lose faith; we will prevail, but we need a new direction. No ‘Great Awakening’ – it’s bankrupting America. No ‘Great Reset’ – it’s war against our freedoms, equality, morals, and history.

Family History: Why We Celebrate the Passover Feast (One more new day to live)

The way I believe was altered by my quest to discover the truth. I began reading the bible and discovered that Jesus Christ had a salvation plan for all of mankind. I was also researching why, where and when my family lines migrated through time. My path has led me to make a difference; I learned the Feast’s of the Lord were passed down from generation to generation. This week is the feast of Passover, an analogy of Jesus Christ shedding his blood to free us from our sins.

Passover is the first feast of the year.

First, before I share about Passover (tonight, 27 Mar 2021) let me begin by telling you two related stories.

The first story is about my wife Karen and I growing up as Catholics. We were very engaged with all aspects of Catholic life, church attendance and volunteering, family and pro-life advocates, Christian education; she attended Catholic school, and we pray at mealtime, bedtime, and at Church. During our travels around the world, our kitchen table became our church. We started reading and studying the bible as a family. We found the ‘truth’ in the bible. We are now and have been for twenty years “Bible Believing Christians”.

My second story has more relevance to the Passover Feast, one of seven feasts the Lord our God, and Jesus Christ our savior mandated before any religion was established.

The Passover Feast was a ‘miracle’ performed to save his/God’s “chosen” people, that he signed a covenant with…the “Ten Commandments”.

I’ll explain…while in Egypt under slavery, God used Moses to help release Israel from their bondage (after 400 years). The “Passover Story” (later a celebrated feast, passed down from each preceding generation) was the story of the final curse over the Egyptian Rulers.

It was a declaration that if the people of God were not freed from slavery, to journey to God’s “Promised Land”, he/God would kill/sacrifice every first born child. Pharaoh mocked this God and the proclamation and refused.

So God spoke to Moses and said, “Take a lamb that is perfect, sacrifice him and eat him in the evening, but first take his blood and paint it over the top and sides of your entryway so none in your house will die. The Israelites did as were instructed and were protected. The Egyptians lost all first born children and released the Jewish slaves.

So this is not a Jewish feast, or a Christian feast, or any religion’s feast. It is our Lord God’s, and Jesus the Christ’s feast. My Bible says, “All shall follow the Lord’s feasts”.

Story two; I have two distinct “family” bloodlines, with multiple off shoots. So do you. On my father’s side we (the Oliver family) are Irish-Scottish ancestry, but first generation Americans. Arriving on the New York-Jersey shores between 1680 and 1750.

On my mother’s side we are French, and after WWII, migration paths made us French-Canadians, French-Swiss, and with border re-zoning became French-Germans. We also are classified in DNA as ‘Basque’. This lineage of mom’s translates back to 1401. Her family name is Quoiffy. The word ‘Quoif’ translates in French to “what.” My first great grandfather it was discovered, was born in an orphanage on the outskirts of Paris. The village community was predominantly Jewish, and Lutheran.

In May 2015, my sister (Edie), wife Karen and I went to Europe for about a month. We were exploring this family’s migration from Paris. We pre-mapped the nine generations and their cities (birth, marriages, work, wartime military posting, deaths and cemeteries).

Edie and I were the last survivors of this lineage, we thought. To our surprise, we discovered we had two first cousins! We reunited and became friends. During our visit, they drove us around, showed us our homesteads, and answered burning questions. The first was, “Are we Catholics, Lutherans or Jewish”. They laughed, and answered, “Yes”.

I shared my Uncle Peter and my mother’s deathbed stories.

We found evidence that my family was educated by Jewish teachers. All the children could speak at ‘least’ five languages, one being Yiddish. Each child played an instrument, or two. Their music teachers were Jewish. My grandmother “only” went to a Jewish doctor, or Jewish butcher for their meats. Moving closer to Germany, into the town of Chateau Salais, my family attended a Lutheran Church, “becoming” protestants.

Their final move was to Alscase-Lorrain. My grandmother Emilie Quoiffy married a French-German man named Johann Hoffmann. I say French – German because those living in the “no mans’ land called France their “MotherLand” and Germany their “FatherLand.”

My grandfathers extended family lived on the French border near Germany in towns like SaarLouis, SaarGemunt, Saargebiet, Saarwellingen, Nalbach and Zweibrucken. Our newly found cousins shared that our Hoffmann family in Nalbach and some in Saarwellingen were taken away by the Nazi’s to camps, and never returned.

My mother was born in SaarLouis France. The youngest of six children, but one of the twins died early. She was a Catholic. Her brothers laughed about learning the “sign of the cross.” My grandfather was known to say, “What respectable Catholic family has a family menorah?” The two oldest children said it was part of survival, and only God knows. Nothing else. Well we asked our newly found cousins and they confirmed that we were every religion.

My grandmother continued to only use Jewish doctors and butchers until the Nazi control of Alscase-Lorrain. My family told Dr. Alexander, and the butcher Max Sabel to leave, go to England or America, right after my father witnessed a mass shooting of four gypsy Jews at the gravel pit where he worked. Before his death, he told my grandmother that he and the Forest Meister or game warden were fishing and snagged a piece of clothing. When they reeled it in it was an elderly man with two bullet holes on his face. The occupation had started.

In many respects this generation moved or migrated because of persecution, war or for work. In hindsight, they should have all moved to Canada. Instead, they moved closer to relatives for security. Unaware that in a few years they would live through the horrors and atrocities of WWI and WWII. Most served in the military.

Like our American Civil War, some families ended up fighting against their relatives. My family’s story will be written as a series of short stories, but today the story is about GOD’s love for us. He’s looking down at me and smiling at my Jewish, Protestant, Catholic foundation; trying to cover all bases. LOL, I’m glad my GOD has a sense of humor.

The American’s Creed

From 1938 – 1942, my grandmother, Edith Speights, worked the assembly line at General Motors Corporation – The Allison Division building motors for aircraft in World War II. On the back of her award was the American’s Creed (below):

I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people, who’s just powers are derived from the consent of the governed; a democracy in a republic; a sovereign nation of many sovereign states; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes,

I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it; to support its constitution; to obey its laws; to respect its flag; and to defend it against all enemies.

WM. Tyler Page (1942)