Morlocks Walk Among Us (Abducted in Plain Sight)

     Recently I viewed a documentary on Netflix: Abducted in Plain Sight. It’s the true story of Jan Broberg who, as a tween, was kidnapped, not once but twice, by Robert Berchtold. The perpetrator was a close friend and neighbor to Jan’s parents, Mary Ann and Bob. Does that seem unbelievable to you? In today’s jaded view of the world, perverts are around every corner, candy store and church pew. Back in the early 1970s most citizens in small towns, and a majority of families attending The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Broberg Family’s religion), had never heard of pedophiles. Decades ago, perverts gravitated toward the Church and many quaint communities just to take advantage of "dumb" people. Those abusers knew what to say, how to say it, and when called to the carpet, would cry and plead their case, saying that they'd repented. They learned how to play the system.

     I did not know Jan Broberg as a child. She was brought up in Idaho. I was born in Detroit; raised to not trust anyone. Old West justice has nothing on us. Although we attended BYU at the same time, I met Jan Broberg long after both of us were moms and she was well into her career as an actress. Soon after we became acquainted, I found out that she’d been abducted as a child. In fact, one evening as I sat and watched the news, a report came in that the rat-bastard that had taken her far from Idaho to marry him in Mexico, was still stalking her! Wanting to know more, but hesitant to ask too many nosy questions, I bought Stolen Innocence, the book that her mother wrote about the kidnappings. I want to add that I never met Jan’s mother or for that matter, her father.

     Last winter, while discussing Abducted in Plain Sight, someone asked me if I believed anyone (referring to the Broberg parents) could be that clueless. Had I heard this tale before moving to Utah for the very first time in 1984, I would have disbelieved the narrative myself. As a youngster in the Detroit area, I learned to always watch out for my own back; partly because in my day, there was a serial murderer known as the Oakland County Child Killer, but I will leave that for another blog entry. While attending BYU in the 1980s, I met countless sweet, trusting individuals. Crazy as it sounds, this documentary, directed by Skye Borgman, is true, and is not an isolated event. Abducted in Plain Sight shows how over and over Jan’s parents let Berchtold back into their lives. He could have murdered Jan at any time. Instead he abused and raped her for years, slowly killing her spirit. While in our time, this tale is weird to viewers on many levels, back then families trusted their neighbors. Deals were made on handshakes. A man was as good as his word. Even today, Latter-day Saints (Mormons) are urged to do good for their fellow humans.  When there’s a flood, tornado or other natural disaster, you’ll find them nailing shingles on roof-tops, raking leaves, or handing out water bottles. These volunteers never ask if you are deserving or if you are a sinner. They just go and help. Mormons are taught to love one another and to forgive. That is good advice, but I still would not allow a snake into my home. (I’m talking about human vipers, not pets.)

     The thing is, I’ve met many parents in Latter-day Saint communities that were just as isolated and naïve as the Brobergs. I've talked to countless victims of similar abuse from Idaho and Utah. It was a lot like the 1960s movie version of H G Wells' The Time Machine. The kind and gentle creatures called Eloi, who lived on the planet's surface, could not fathom that the Morlocks, who dwelt below, would lead the Eloi into the caverns to devour them. It was beyond their comprehension. (Oh, that we could all be like that -innocently believing we are safe.) Sadly, “Morlocks” walk among us. Many Mormons, unaware of such devils, were childlike and easily led a generation ago.  Not only were the parents of victimized kids counseled to forgive, there were even cases of adults violated by community leaders. They, too, were urged to forgive, over and over. Rarely were their rapists ever brought to justice.

     This mindset was so thick, that beginning in the 1960s, a doctor in a heavily Latter-day Saint region of eastern Idaho sexually abused his ObGyn patients for three decades. Despite complaints to their bishops and stake presidents (spiritual leaders of a larger region) the women were told not to make a big deal of it; after all, forgiveness is good for the soul and besides, “The fine doctor is the only one in town that’s qualified to assist you in bringing your babies into the world.”

Where do you go when you are touched inappropriately, harmed, or shamed into silence and then your bishop asks you to forgive?  To whom do you turn when the police look the other way and then the people you most trust, even your parents, are asked to find the kindest place in their hearts for the monster that devoured your soul?

     This situation in the once-isolated west has improved. Decades before cable TV, people were happy just to get two stations. Now with the internet, families know all too well that there are evil maniacs who exist, ones that enjoy nothing better than to slowly destroy innocent children. There are also those that will murder a child quicker than the time it takes for a mother to say a prayer for her baby.

     Getting back to the documentary, when I was asked if Jan Broberg seemed normal to me, I had to respond, “What is normal?” To put it in context, I know many, many performers. She's actually pretty normal compared to some. She's strong and resilient and I want to stress this point: any “normal” person might want to sweep similar memories like a crushed rat under a rug. They’d stomp on it, choke it, then move along. Denial is problematic. Personally, I’d rather be aware of what’s actually happening: The rat under the rug might revive, slink along the floor and become a bigger beast later. Jan is not going to let that happen. She wants to get the word out that there are still monsters and manipulators amongst us. Jan’s family was nearly devoured by a monster manipulator. Don’t blame the victims. Instead, share Jan’s story. It may give someone out there just enough courage to come forward and find the right people to bring their perpetrator to justice. At the very least, the rat won’t be left under a rug to scurry out and bite again. A wound must be cleansed for healing to take place, not left to fester. Jan is beyond normal. I find her to be brave. She wants to heal and along the way, Ms. Broberg deserves the joy and happiness, the success and popularity, that her documentary gives her.

       Liesa Swejkoski (Author) & Jan Broberg (Actress and Kidnapping Survivor)

Best Laid Plans

     It was the revered Scottish Poet Robert Burns who said, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley.” In simple English he meant that the best laid plans of mice and men don’t always go the way we want them to.

     He was right, you know. My husband’s dream is to build a log home. I’m not sure where his vision got its start, maybe one morning pouring Log Cabin brand syrup on his pancakes as a boy. I do know this: since marrying me, that city boy became a man that drove a pick-up truck. Add to that, more than ten years ago, he purchased a .30-06 (pronounced "thirty-ought-six") rifle and brings home the venison every other autumn. I’d like to think I rubbed off on him. Although I was born in Detroit, I spent a lot of time on Gramma’s farm growing up, and then later had a huge vegetable garden, horses, rabbits, ducks and chickens. Maybe our dream has intertwined like the roots of a willow and an oak. We might grow in different ways, but we are rooted together in our most important goals.

     I am fully on board to build our log home. However, Big Dee has his ideas and I have mine. I see our home realistically. For years now I’ve worked with the elderly. I see myself going in that direction; who of us will grow younger until the day we become infants again? Well, I suppose some of us do, in a way. Our mothers will not be there to tend to us in our frail, aging years, but someone has to – our children, or a nurse, or maybe someone from our church.

     Big Dee visualizes a house with an upper level. It has a bathroom upstairs. I see myself falling down those stairs. I see myself resentfully schlepping my backside up and down those steps to clean the restroom. On the other hand, I envision everything we need placed downstairs: a kitchen and laundry; extra wide showers with rails so we won’t have to go into assisted living. He sees no need for these things because he has no intention of growing old - that’s just out of the question. We’ve both agreed: this is out last home. I just want to stay in it as long as possible; and I want to make it “elder friendly” now, not retro-fit it down the road.

     We explained this to our first architect. We found that his grand plans were going to cost us three times more money than we have. We scaled down, about twice. Our architect is a genius in his craft so you can imagine how frustrated he became with us. He wanted to go larger. The limitations of our bank account made us go even smaller.

     During this time, Dee and I consulted with about a half dozen log home builders. We found out that they all have different ideas as to what kind of materials we could use for the exterior. We have basically three choices: Log siding (exterior) over a traditionally built home, hybrid where the logs are hollowed out and a foam is put in them on the pretext of energy efficiency, and last of all, traditional logs. David and I considered all options and agreed that we want real logs.

     We consulted more builders. Some were in the business a relatively short amount of time. Others had been crafting log homes successfully for decades. Many couldn’t be bothered to call us back, or text us, or email us, or send up smoke signals. One never even opened his office door. I stood outside calling. Nothing. Nada.

     We recently met with a wonderful builder. His company’s been featured in a documentary on PBS. He remained behind the scenes letting the builders, stars and designers shine in the light. He answered all of our questions. I like that his cabins have been standing firm and efficient for nearly forty years. I am impressed by his designs. I walked into his original cabin and what I noted, almost down to the last detail, was a picture from the back of my mind. The only difference is that the loft does have a toilet and shower. Everything else we need is downstairs. I guess if things get bad enough for me, since sometimes I already have the beginnings of balance issues, I’ll just have one of my kids clean that restroom. I could even hire someone just to clean the upstairs. Help is, realistically, less expensive than assisted living.

     I think of this house building experience like a young woman or a young man dreaming of their life partners. They might want to marry the clean-shaven muscular man, or the girl next door. Instead, they grow and mature and fall in love with someone that was in the back of their mind all the time, not who they thought they wanted, but what they truly needed. Together these people grow together, learning how to compromise. Maybe “Bobb” wanted a tall blonde Norwegian looking gal, but later meets a stout, little woman with short dark hair and sees eternity in her eyes. That’s just an example of course.

     The point is, I had plans for my log home. Those plans changed and morphed. Then I saw other ideas and incorporated them. Dee would make a point and I’d consider it. In my mind’s eye was a picture of the antique furniture I’d inherited, in various spots. Now I am not so sure it will look right in each room.

     Soon, we will finalize plans. There’s just details and paperwork. The best laid plans, of mice and men don’t always go as planned. Sometimes we just have to make new plans.

For a useful guide to translating the original poem, please, consult: https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_a_Mouse

One Man's Junk

                                    (The historical journey continues, my friends.) 

     

     Last spring when we closed on our property, I found that bags of trash were dumped in our woods, way back in a small ravine. I was disgusted and disappointed. I was angry. We put up a sign and the littering stopped. However, several weeks ago when I went back there to pick up more bags, although there was no new garbage, I noticed that the dumping had gone on, apparently, for a long time. So far the pit is about six feet down and it continues; how far I can only speculate. There are small saplings rooted into this mess and even a couple trees, as evidence to how long this assault on nature has been going on. There were glass bottles, metal, and some plastic. A few scrappers picked up the metal that was set aside. I joked that if they found an old car under it all, they could keep it. There was in fact, almost an entire vehicle. Not sure if they ever found the engine, but there was a rotted seat, a bumper and headlights. I joked that maybe Jimmy Hoffa was down there, too. Within ten minutes they found shoes and underwear, rotted, but recognizable.  At that point, the joking stopped. After that weekend, when I saw that there was broken glass in the ravine I said, “no more.” I didn’t want any of the men that were collecting scrap metal to wander in there and get hurt. We put up a no trespassing sign.

    
     That didn’t keep me out of the rubbish though. As I said before, I’m curious and blamed this bout on a need to feed the history monkey that’s been on my back as of late.

     Since that time, I’ve poked through the mucky artifacts with a shovel. It’s like some wicked geology dig. The first layer was fairly recent junk. I tentatively prodded a couple feet and saw cans from the 1980s, with so-called “collectable” logos. The next week, after a storm, I found a small foot sticking out of the debris. The toes were grimy, but recognizable. I cautiously reached out to them and found cold plastic. It was a doll. I dug through this stratum to find toys from the 1970s. There was a learning board - the kind parents used to put in play pens, Fischer-Price toys, and even a huge Hasbro inch-worm riding scooter. It was broken, or I would have tried to clean it up.  There was a ceramic panda, a cracked mixing bowl, too. Later, I found more dolls. They were intact, but their clothes were ragged and their hair was rotted.

    Yesterday, I got all the way to a layer that is from the 1960s or maybe even the 1950s. At that point I’d had enough. The sides of the ravine are taller than me and I don’t want the slop to fall in and suffocate the life from my lungs. I hope the demo crew will dig it out with a back hoe, and then they can haul it off. The men can keep whatever they find that they think might be of value.

    In that last band of refuse that I was brave enough to burrow into, there was a perfect little Anchor-Hocking milk glass flower vase with a lovely grape cluster pattern. I took that home and cleaned it up. Turns out it’s worth some dough! An exact artifact is on Etsy for a whopping $14.00. 

Pizza’s on me guys.

                                                                                        (Similar to vase that I found)