I had long known that my father was born in Provo, Utah. And that much information satisfies the form.
During my teenage years, I got more information when our family took a summer trip to Provo. While there, we visited some of Dad's cousins. They lived just a few blocks from the house where he was born, so we visited the place. I don't recall going inside, probably because it was no longer owned by relatives.
Hopefully, somewhere there is a picture taken there that day. I remember a rather large yard with a beautiful large black walnut tree, on a hot blue-skied summer day.
Many years later, I was driving Elizabeth down to Provo to her mother's house, and we arrived twenty minutes earlier than expected. I surprised her by driving to her grandfather's birthplace.
She thought that was very interesting and took a few pictures with my cell phone, including this one:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVRZEKAlNNABaf4oWGdsgm5Mpzm-PZcZcpviLeG-RkLaeY0fsMAZc1MyaObbKADRdDpulQWtOklbK6n0L8tFm1ltJmZGwKKoLyi6ShZ0O3aECO1ID5Eme9VHD_lLSbC4xJOglpWoHuvk/s320/IMG00285.jpg)
And that is what my father's birthplace looks like nearly a hundred years later. At the usual rate of one second per second, that's darn near three billion.