Boy, am I good! I managed to talk my way out of the hospital long enough to make a pilgrimage to Memphis. Physically it was a challenge, but worth every second to be immersed in southern language, food and family. My siblings and I were there, together, for the first time since 1968 and no, that's not a type-o. My dad has two siblings living and we so enjoyed being with them and their families and hearing so many great family stories. Bottom line: I've called several places 'home' over the years, and they have been, but the pull to Memphis will never go away, nor do I want it to. I love my southern heritage--the graciousness, the barbeque, the fireflies, the giant thunder storms, but especially the rhythm of Memphis' language which stands apart from all other southern dialects. Put ten Southerners in a room together and I'll tell you, by the way they talk, which one is from Memphis.

So yes, as promised, I'm updating. I'm back in the hospital but I feel total peace and confidence that my doctors will figure out the latest and get me back on track. In the meantime, thank goodness for a mini lap-top and access to the internet, plus, I'm doing a lot of writing and some genealogy--making sure I've cited sources. Most of this is what I'd be doing if I were home anyway. My spirits are good. Just keep those prayers flying upward and picture me taking another trip South to do more research. For other genealogists, a couple of lines keep calling me. You know what I mean. When I get out of the hospital I'll post some pictures.

He Forgot the Poop Sac

Sinai hospital. 4 am. Thanks for the Lasix (sp?) doc. I'm peeing every 1/2 hour. And starving--having eaten practically nothing but liquids for two weeks. Surgery soon. Looking forward to it. Blog surfing. Find one about a year's worth of crock pot cooking. Reminds me of my own crockpot story. I'm about to incriminate myself. Promise you'll still love me.

About 1980. Larry brings home a cottontail and drops it, skinned and all, into the kitchen sink. The kids are little. Clayton hasn't been born yet. We gardened. We canned. We hunted. He shot it, I cooked it, and we ate it. Grass fed beef. Goat milk. Home grown corn, potatoes and tomatoes. A different life. But I digress. So I rinse the little bunny's body, drop it in the crock pot, cover it with potatoes, carrots and onions, add water, salt and pepper. Put on the lid. Turn on the heat.

The next night:
What's for dinner? (Now how did you know that was asked by a man?).
Rabbit and potatoes.
You mean...the rabbit I brought home last night?
Yeah.
But I didn't finish cleaning it.
What do you mean you didn't finish cleaning it? You always clean in the carport and bring me the finished--parts.
Well, I forgot the poop sac.

The poop sac. Little brown pebbly rabbit poop. Hmm. The crock pot is full! There's so much food in there! Good, healthy organic-before-we-knew-what-organic-meant food that we planted and nurtured and harvested. And luckily, the poop sac is on the very bottom. Once I turned on the heat, I never touched the food until the next night.

Fast forward 25 years. I'm telling my younger sister, Rachel, the story. She's laughing. She and Mike did the mountain-man-and-his-little-woman stint too, in Oregon. So she gets the self-sufficiency at all costs mentally. In fact, we used to talk about collaborating on a cookbook: How to Make Two Hot Dogs Feed a Family of Five. But I digress again. Back to the story:

Rachel: So did you throw it out?
No.
Did you eat it? Now she's laughing harder.
No.
Well if you didn't throw it out and you didn't eat it, what did you do with it?
I'm laughing now too, and barely able to squeak out the truth:
We fed it to the kids!
We laugh so hard that tears run down our faces.

Oh the things we confess as we age!! But in my defense--I scooped off the top just that one time--and the rest wasn't totally wasted. It went to the dogs.

Brandon's Life in Pictures

My daughter created this beautiful slide show to honor Brandon on the anniversary of his death.
Click here to watch it. Make sure your speakers are on.

Making it Official

This morning I decided that I need to break some old habits by starting some new ones. Instead of waiting until bedtime to read scripture, I read after breakfast before I do anything else. That way I make sure that it happens. And for some reason, I feel compelled to re-read the Book of Mormon straight through and finish by March 28, 2009, the anniversary of Brandon's death. Now, if it were a novel, no big deal, right? The last time I made this kind of goal (I hate to admit it, much less put it in writing) was in 1983 when I was in labor with Clayton...

My labor started late in the evening and after only four contractions I was doing the breathing thing. I worked hard, and Larry did too, pressing his thumbs in my lower back during each contraction. "Harder! Harder!" I'd scream, and harder he pushed. At one point he said, "My thumbs are going to be permanently kinked backwards!" Most of my labor was in the warm water of the bath tub. When the midwife arrived and I asked her how much longer, she said at the rate I was going, probably six or eight more hours. I couldn't do it. I knew I couldn't. I had given birth to two other children but this labor was different, intense from the word go, and we were having yet another home birth. I closed my eyes and prayed. I promised the Lord if he would help me have this baby soon, I would read the Book of Mormon from beginning to end--something I had never done before. I delivered Clayton within the hour without a hitch, and he was over 10lbs!

He turned out to be the most contented, good-natured baby ever (of course, he should have been content--he nursed every hour for the first 48 hours, and was up to 13 pounds by the time he was 3 weeks!) The sweet spirit he brought into our home cannot be described. The joy of his birth and the love his brother and sister felt for him was truly wonderful.

One morning while nursing him in the rocking chair, I remembered that I had bargained with God. We had a deal and I needed to keep my end of it. I picked up the Book of Mormon and started at the beginning. I read and I read. I cannot explain the peace I felt during those times and how it permeated our home. I made it a point to read whenever I sat down to nurse. Sometimes I read for five minutes, sometimes longer. Eventually I did what I promised to do and finished the sacred record. Blessings followed the way they always do whenever we keep a commandment, and I'm sure much of it had to do with increased spiritual knowledge.

Last Sunday in gospel doctrine our instructor asked for examples of how reading the Book of Mormon has blessed our lives. I thought about that sweet time with Clayton--25 years ago now, and I guess that's when I decided to read straight through again. Why I feel the need to do it by March 28 isn't clear. But often, we go by faith, right? Ten pages a day or more. I'm on it...

Zion

They talked about reaching Zion as a condition of the heart. Something to strive for our whole lives. The state of the world during the millennium after all the wars are over when people will dwell together in love and peace. I could have told them that yes, zion is a condition, and it is a the state of the world, but we don't have to wait for it or for the Savior to come. Zion is close by. I know because I lived there. It was right around the corner.

To Bonnie, Raedene, Marilyn, Linda, and Susan

From You I Learned

That fresh pressed cider tastes like heaven
dogs should be spayed or neutered
copying copyrighted music is wrong
and following the prophet is right
From you I learned
that it's a good thing
to make someone a birthday cake
get your other friends together
and sing happy birthday while holding the cake
and standing on the birthday girl's porch
From you I learned
that hard work makes good things happen
staying faithful to covenants is essential
elberta peaches have the best flavor
and zucchini can be canned
to become a substitute
for crushed pineapple
From you I learned
that no husband is perfect
and neither am I
but sisterhood is close
From you I learned
that raspberries need picking
or they stop bearing fruit
consistency is key
and neighbors appreciate
a regularly mowed lawn
From you I learned
that each day is a new start
no matter what happened yesterday
and God hears our prayers
even the ones we just think about saying
From you I learned
that it's ok to say no
the spirit speaks all the time
but it's we who decide
if we're listening
or not
From you I learned
that our children can bring us happiness
and squished dandelions
wet kisses
exasperation
and frustration
no matter how cute they are
even in families
that look perfect on Sundays
From you I learned
to plant a tree in the front yard
leave home once in awhile
even if it's just long enough
to go get some curly fries
exercising to music is fun
but forgiveness is vital
From you I learned
that potato bugs are a nuisance
teenagers don't always mind
direction is important
the veil is thin
and sometimes we just have to believe
From you I learned
that I could give a talk
plant a garden
teach a lesson
bottle home-made chili
and feel the promptings of the Holy Ghost
From you I learned
that I could
be a neighbor
a friend
a mother
and myself
all at the same time
From you I learned
to get up early
do it right
keep going
family is everything
and finding joy in the journey
is the goal
From you I learned
that time changes appearance
circumstances alter our course
and distance separates
but love among sisters remains in force
forever

Special People

Last week I flew non-stop to Salt Lake City; Madelyn flew in from Friday Harbor and we met at the airport. Our destination was our mom's house in White Rocks, but that evening we stayed with Clytie and Spence in Kaysville.

The Adams served a mission to California in 2005 and we became instant good friends. They showed up at my condo when my hair was in a ponytail and I was painting in preparation for a house-warming party. An eternal friendship was born.

I will long remember the other evening, the fire in the fireplace, the delicious meal, (the pottawattamie jelly!) the wonderful conversation. The four of us talked for hours and could have talked longer if we hadn't been so tired. I was proud to show my sister off to my friends and vice-versa! Before we left on Tuesday morning, Clytie gave me this picture of Brandon that was in her album. It was from their farewell party right before they returned home to Utah. Thank you so much. This picture brings back warm memories of Brandon and that time in our lives.

I Found it!

When we went through Brandon's things in October, I found some odds and ends that had been missing. For instance--I had the mixer while he had the beaters! Go figure. Anyway, amidst all the clothing, books and dishes, I found a stack of recipes that I've had for years. Some of you will be too young to remember, but women's magazines such as Women's Day and Family Circle, used to include recipe booklets that could be pulled out and either filed or put in a binder. I love the ratty old booklet in these pictures. I've had it for over 30 years. How do I know? Because the inside pages say "Women's Day December 1975"! Wow. That means I had been married only about a year when I started making this recipe for pound cake.

The cake travels well and slices nicely if you want to include some on a cookie plate; or make a whole one and sweeten up that persnickety neighbor. Whatever you decide, the cake is delicious! I've had a request for the recipe, so here it is:

Pound Cake
In medium bowl stir together 2 & 2/3 cup flour, 1/4 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp nutmeg (optional) and 1/4 tsp salt; set aside.

In large bowl cream 1 & 1/2 cups butter and 2 & 1/4 cups sugar until light and fluffly. Add 2 tsps grated lemon peel, 2 tsps vanilla, and 8 eggs, two at a time, mixing well between. Mixture will look a bit curdly but that's ok.

Add flour mixture to wet mixture all at once and mix at low speed until smooth and well blended. (Do not use a high speed as you'll whip air into the mixture and your pound cake will come out tough). Bake in 10 inch bundt pan at 325* for an hour and ten minutes. Cool for 5 minutes then transfer to cake plate. Store airtight in a container or wrap in plastic wrap. Do not refrigerate.

My Mother, My Friend

Dear, Dear Mother,

Today is your birthday and just one of many times that I think about all those years we spent together in Idaho. Remember when I was 16 and newly married? We lived downstairs in your and Dad's big brick house on Palmer Rd. You never complained about that. Every night you cooked dinner and every night we gathered around the kitchen bar, blessed the food, and ate. You cooked simply, Mother, and I know that sometimes you felt that your food wasn't fancy enough, especially compared to the way my mother cooked. Hers was just different, that's all. I tried to assure you that your food was delicious but I don't know that you were ever convinced. You fixed chicken, roast beef, or hamburger patties, mashed or baked potatoes, gravy, a canned vegetable (usually green beans) and sometimes a salad or beet pickles from the fruit room downstairs. Chicken was either fried in the big black iron skillet, or put in the oven in a roasting pan and nobody could match your milk gravy! (Brandon never stopped talking about it as long as he lived). Beef was always roasted surrounded by potatoes and carrots. And steak from the grass-fed beef was sometimes substituted for hamburger. For dessert you served homemade fruit pie (remember how you'd make 12 at a time and freeze them?), jello salad, or canned peaches which you and Dad bottled every summer. You always set the bar with your everyday dishes--white Corelle ware with the yellow gold trim, plastic gold tumblers, paper napkins, salt and pepper, slices of homemade bread, and ice in our cups. Dad drank soda pop every night and you usually drank water. Larry and I usually drank soda pop or milk, but sometimes you fixed Koolaide. Larry's place was on the round stool closest to the wall, giving his left-handed elbow freedom to move. I sat next to him on his right, and Dad sat a space down from me, closest to the telephone. As the children came, the bar accomodated them and their high chairs, too. I never told you how much it meant to me for all those happy times around that kitchen bar, happier than any other place I can think of. And over the years, you sat across from all of us in the corner where the big cabinets that Dad built joined each other so you could get to the stove or refrigerator easily if we wanted seconds.

Sunday meals were the same as every day meals except for more choices of food, and then you used the clear glass tumblers with the painted flowers on them. Only when we had large family gatherings did we eat around the dining room table and the bar. I loved it when you used your pretty china with the roses on them and a tablecloth to protect the dining room set you'd inherited from your sister, Marvel. Age determined who sat at the dining table and who sat at the bar with preferential treatment oldest to youngest, but the kids didn't seem to mind where they ate since they were always hungry for your home cooking. If we had a really, really large group, the adults fed the kids first, sent them outside or downstairs, and then we ate. How I miss those precious times together in that house. You and Dad were my parents in almost every sense of the word.

Only one experience with you gives me cause for chagrin and that was shortly after Larry and I were married. I don't think that I ever thanked you for it and the lesson you and Dad taught me about growing up and taking adult responsibility.

After our family dinners, Larry and I jumed up from the table and usually went downstairs or outside. Sometimes we joined Dad in the den to watch television. Several weeks went by and one night Dad took Larry aside and told him, "You guys are not children anymore. Marci should help Mother with the dishes after we eat." Needless to say, when Larry told me, I was mortified. I knew better than that! I guess I was so wrapped up in my own life that it never occurred to me to lend you a hand. Typical teenager. I simply hadn't stopped to think about the work and sacrifices you were making for us, and indeed, I felt like one of your own from the beginning. I guess you could say that, married or not, that's when I began to grow up. I was eager to jump in and help you after that and you always thanked me. Looking back, I realize that all those after- dinner times together formed the basis for our life-long friendship. My memories of putting food away, washing out the gold porcelain sink, and washing and drying off the big counter are sweet ones. I even love the memory of how you always put your little dish with the plastic fruit in the center of the bar after we were finished. I have that dish now and it's a reminder of you and all you taught me. I will love you forever! Happy Birthday, Mother.

What's in a Name? A Whole Lot!!

I've always thought it would be fun to write a book about people's nick names. There are so many strange ones out there, and the sources of them are even more interesting, the same with real names. Some years ago I was working at Rachel's factory during the holiday season and the phones were ringing non-stop. I decided to help the sales department and answer calls for awhile. The caller was from Florida and she wanted to place an order. After taking down her items, the call went pretty much like this:

"May I have your name?"

"XXoody"

"I'm sorry, can you spell that for me?"

"Yes, Trudy. T-R-U-D-Y."

"Oh! Trudy! I thought you said Poody!"

"POOOOODY! Lawrrrdd!" She was practically screaming into the telephone.

"It was bad enough with Trudy--you know, kids and all, 'Trudy, Trudy, fat and fruity' but if my parents had named me Poody why I'd have to kill em!"

"Well, I grew up in the South too, and I have this cousin named Cynthia but everyone has always called her Pody..."

Yes, in spite of my talking without thinking, the woman did finalize her order. Good thing she had a sense of humor.

Past and present nicknames in our families include but are not limited to (but don't ask me who's who; I'll never tell): Wimba, Dode, Boh, Guh, Bear, Sweet Pea, Bug, Wells, Blondie, Muffin, Moose Poose, Mother Brain, Lawrence of Arabia You Cool Dude You, Telbell, The Budster, Brandony Baloney, Toasty Toad, Sis, Chantilly Lace, Vee, Monkey, Pooty, Mama Jama Salama, Pops, Aunty M, Nicholasmouse, Ebird, Booger, Jiddy, Punk, Raisin, Rye Girl, Rye Boy, and Sweety Peety.

Let me know if there's a name you'd like added to the list!

Happy Father's Day

Because of my joining the Dayley family at just barely 16, this man,Ardell Dayley, played a huge fathering role in my life, teaching by example, commitment to family, hard work, perseverance, love, humility, and honesty. This is one of my favorite photos of my father-in-law, taken in the four- acre family owned Christmas tree farm that was behind our house in Martinez, California, because this is so typical of how I remember him. The tree farm was a great place for the kids to play, for parents to hide from their kids (which we did on occasion so we could talk with some privacy), and the opportunity for us to spend precious time with Mother and Dad every fall and winter for eight years when they came from Idaho and parked their travel trailer to run the farm. Even though Larry and Dan did a lot of work on the farm year-around, it would not have survived the way it did without Dad's hard and consistent work during the farm's busiest season.

Most of my earlier Idaho memories of Dad find him working in the long vegetable garden, monitoring canal water wearing tall rubber boots and carrying a shovel, mowing the big lawn, or walking the rest of the property checking for trouble in the way of gopher holes a horse might step into, fences that needed repair, or an alfalfa field ready for harvest. Later, after retirement (What's that?), Dad maintained that same kind of work ethic on the tree farm in California, constantly trimming trees, checking for disease, cutting out trees that might infect other ones, checking the fence for holes where a few dishonest broke through at night to steal their trees, and repairing the gravel parking lot when ruts developed. He was a man who loathed idleness, not in a preachy way, but as a matter of personality. Dad sat down for only six things I can think of: eating a good meal, attending a church meeting, watching a football game, visiting with a family member, reading (he loved National Geographic, Readers' Digest, The Book of Mormon, and the local newspaper), or resting in the big recliner after a hard day's work. Simply put, Dad was a man who got the job done. I've witnessed that principle at work in Dad's posterity--something they learned from example and can be proud to claim as a legacy of his. Happy Father's Day Dad! We miss you!

Resting and visiting with family. It must have been a Sunday, or we were a group too large for the little tv room, because this photo was taken in Mother and Dad's beautiful and spacious but not often used living room. Mother loved the big picture window that Dad put in when he built the house, and just recently I learned that Mother always insisted on living in a house that faced the mountains. She wanted that and Dad always saw to it, even in the smaller homes he built for them when they were younger.


A picture of my dad at about age 40. I don't have a lot of memories of my own father, something that went missing a long time ago. But I do know that my father was a good and gentle man who loved God and his five children and actively practiced his Christian faith. I can't remember a spanking or even a scolding from him ever. He was brilliant also, his IQ testing reported to have been extremely high. He was in the CIC during his time in the army and passed the CPA exam later in life. My father came from a long line of musicians, men and women who worked more with their minds and less with their hands. Dad was the youngest of four children and his first nieces tell stories of his being their favorite uncle. Dad played the piano, and my mother said, "Your daddy could play a mean saxaphone!" In fact, my parents met during a musical event in which he played the sax and she played the piano. Mom said she wasn't impressed at first because he was a bit cocky, but that disappeared immediately when he discovered that Mom wasn't impressed by that. Dad's siblings and cousin who still live in Memphis speak of my father as a man with great love for family and one who loved to laugh. I look forward to hearing the sound of that some day.

My earliest memory isn't really mine, but my mother has told me the story so often that I can almost remember. She says that when I was born (the third of five children) Dad liked to hold me by cradling my head in the palm of his hand, and my feet resting against the crook of his arm. He thought I was sweet and beautiful and practiced holding me that way until I grew too big. I imagine he must have smiled into my face as well, because I've always known that my father loved me.

One of my favorite memories is our regular trips to Howard Johnson's restaurant every weekend after my parents divorced. We always ate pancakes or waffles, and bacon, and on the way home, Dad made sure to drive us past Graceland for a possible glimpse of Elvis Presley. Dad always slowed the Chevrolet way down and we craned our necks as far and long as we could.

It was a sad day for all of us when we moved away from Memphis in 1969. My father died of cancer in 1972 when he was almost 44 and I was almost 14. Our birthdays are two days apart.

I Can't Explain It; Not Even to Myself

Ok, so apologizies to those of you who have emailed to remind me that I haven't posted lately. I have finally caught up, so you'll have to scroll down a way to see the entries. I posted in date happening order.

The trip to Memphis was wonderful in that I spent time with my aunt and uncles and felt their love and support. However, the introspective mood I frequently found myself in did not lend itself to blogging. What I will say is this: Memphis is home, and that is never more real to me than when it's storming, or when I smell humidity, springtime, blooming dogwoods, and fresh cut grass. This trip I experienced both.

One night at Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick's, we took turns watching the hurricane warnings on tv and from the wide window, the sky turn black and dense over the Mississippi River. Fortunately, the hurricane turned slightly in its course so that Memphis was spared its fury. I know my aunt was worried. But I have a picture in my mind of what the dark sky and the Memphis skyline looked like from the top floor of the building where we were, and it filled me not with dread and fear, but with wonder and a sense of belonging that I have felt about storms ever since I can remember.

Once as a little girl, I invited a neighbor girl to spend the night. Her parents said no because of the storm. My friend had only to cross her back yard and mine. Such a short distance it seemed. I thought her parents were being overly cautious and I knew that they were afraid, but I wasn't. I stood at the tall kitchen plate glass window watching the tree limbs toss and bend, sometimes almost parallel to the ground, and I would have gone outside in the storm except for my mother who said--No.

Even now forty years later, I have to admit that in my excitement and draw toward the power and beauty of thunder and lightning storms, I forget that hurricanes often result in destruction and death. Nevertheless, I welcome the intensity of their expression passing over and through me. It's something I can neither help nor explain away. Something, someday, will be the cause of my demise, but it will never be a wild, Southern storm. Of this I am certain. Perhaps this is what allows me to stand still and watch, wonder, rejoice, and give thanks, even in the midst of a storm's unleashed passion.

Easter Memories

Brandon's first Easter, 1977. He wasn't interested in his basket at all...at first...

With cousin Ardell eating shells and all.

With their rabbits from Grandma Dayley.

Easter 1979

Chantel and Brandon Easter 1979 with the bunny rabbit.

Clayton, Easter 1984. Oakley, California
Chantel , Easter 1984. Oakley, California
Brandon, Easter 1984. Oakley, California.Chantel and Brandon, Easter 1984. Oakley, California.Clayton, Brandon and Chantel, Easter 1985. Oakley, California

Easter at Pop's House 1966

Martha, Rachel and John, hamming it up (pun intended!).

These pictures go with an entry I posted on May 7, 2007.

---

Interlude

Rocksprings, Wyoming. Quality Inn. I remember living in this town for three weeks in a small trailer on a construction site in the dead of winter. Brandon was 3 and 1/2 and Chantel was about 1. It was a motherhood adventure, trying to cook when the pipes were frozen, entertain children, keep them clean and warm, all the while using water from the neighbor's garden hose for cooking and bathing. I have sweet memories of those days. Brandon played with a little foster child named "Chewey" from the house next door; Chantel was the happiest baby. She learned to stand alone and she was so proud of herself! She took her first steps shortly after we went home to Burley.

Larry returned to Rock Springs and worked for another month, glad that we hadn't stayed with him because the temperatures dropped even more and the weather was brutal. Terry, I think his name was, offered Larry a partnership and we talked about it, but we would have had to move to Wyoming among other things. Larry enjoyed working with his father, too. Staying in Burley was a good decision and one we never regretted.

A True Story

One evening in the small rural town of Burley, Idaho, Mother and Dad were at home and Dad was listening to BYU sports on the radio. It was after supper and their five children had long since married and moved away. Mother didn't want to interrupt the game and besides, she wasn't even sure what was happening, so she waited awhile before telling her husband about the pain in her arm and chest. Needless to say, they made a mad dash to the local hospital where the doctors determined that Mother was having a heart attack. She was life-flighted to Salt Lake City, Utah.

While Dad and their daughter, Beverly, drove south in the car toward Salt Lake, Mother felt her spirit leaving her body. She was in a white mist and moving. She knew she was going and she prayed. She didn't try to bargain. She simply told Heavenly Father that she wasn't ready to go yet. She told him that she wanted to spend more time with her family and she trusted that he heard her and would answer. She was 72 years old then and God answered her prayers. He gave her another twenty years together with us.

I've been trying to think of how my life would have been different if Mother had died then instead of now.

I wouldn't have had the pleasure of introducing mother to the women in my ward as "my good friend, and my mother-in-law."

We wouldn't have had the joy of having Mother and Dad living right over the back fence every winter during tree farm season, letting the children play and take turns eating dinner with them.

We wouldn't have enjoyed going to ward parties together, having family home evening, or just visiting in the living room in the evenings after the sun went down.

We wouldn't have pictures from the year we made old-fashioned tree garland from popcorn and cranberries.

I wouldn't have heard Dad bear his testimony of the Book of Mormon, sitting on a stool in the out building where he read the Book of Mormon cover to cover in between customers shopping for the perfect tree. It was the first and only time he ever said anything about it and I'll never forget the feeling I had, hearing his words.

If mother had died twenty years ago, she wouldn't have felt the influence of the holy ghost which prompted her to call us and beg us to tell Brandon not to drive across Nevada at night--a premonition that went unheeded. Such is the power of agency--but that's a different story.

They wouldn't have watched their grandchildren grow into responsible, kind, and loving adults with children of their own.

Mother wouldn't have heard Alyssa and Serena sing to her during a visit when they were students at BYU, something she enjoyed immensely and spoke of often.

If Mother had died twenty years ago, we wouldn't have her life story which she wrote and added to occasionally until it was pushing thirty pages and which we now can draw on as a source of strength.

Mostly, if mother had died twenty years ago, we wouldn't have enjoyed the blessings of a woman whose entire life revolved around loving her family and keeping her covenants with God. Her faith that God would answer her prayer became a great blessing to all of us. Mother, we love you and we'll miss you so much.

Mother, Oh Mother

I'm feeling a combination of sadness, anticipation and wonder right now. Mother's time is drawing to a close and I weep as I write this, even as I rejoice that she and Dad will finally be together again. Mother has said repeatedly that she doesn't know why the Lord has kept her here so long. I don't have an answer for her, but for our sakes, I'm glad she has lived these many years and I feel blessed every time I think about her influence in my life.

I was one day of 16 when I got married. I had met Mother only a few times and we really didn't know each other at all. I know that she and Dad were heartbroken when they got into Larry's room one night and found the note he'd left telling them of our whereabouts and our plans. They went to see the bishop who told them there were a lot of things worse than getting married. Mother and Dad decided right then that they would support our decision. Surely they must have worried and wept and wondered, especially since our decision eliminated the hopes they had for their son to serve a mission and marry a nice Mormon girl. It wasn't long before I became that girl, but in the meantime and forever after we never felt anything from them but support.

The evening of our wedding (we were in Salt Lake City after a fruitless but mad dash to Las Vegas) Larry called his parents. They both got on the phone. Mother said to me, "You are our daughter now and we love you." I felt something touch my heart and I think that right then I began to love her in return. Now that I have grown children of my own, I marvel at Mother's and Dad's commitment to stand by us no matter what. They spent the rest of their lives teaching by example and showing us all what real love is all about.

I love black, gospel music,

just in case you didn't know. Last night I went to Oakland with Clayton and Michele and we listened to and watched Gladys Knight with her gospel choir at the interstake center. There was clapping and hallelujiahs, amens from the audience, and I felt like a child wrapped in a soft old quilt. There's something so Memphis about that kind of music for me. I remember Sunday School and Bible School in the summers..."Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, for the Bible Tells Me So..." And when Gladys sang those same words with such power and sincerity, I couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

As children, we didn't grow up going to black churches, but the music FEELS so warm and familiar. Is it genetic memory? I have memories of gospel music flowing through open car windows as we passed church after church going grocery shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, the shoe repair, then stopping at the Wonder Bread factory for a free sample loaf of hot bread. And it didn't seem to matter what day of the week it was. Gospel music seemed to permeate the streets. I have memories of walking from the car to our church on Sundays and hearing music from another big church across the street so full of joy and enthusiasm for life, as though the music was part of the fabric of Memphis. Indeed, given the slave heritage, it must be. I have visions of domestic help singing while they worked, loud and raucous, or sweet and tender. Everywhere, that music wove itself into the fabric of my childhood. No wonder I loved it so much last night.

Black congregation churches in downtown Memphis are are large, stone, and full of beautiful stained glass. The churches out in the country are more simple, white clapboard usually, with green lawns and frequently an attached cemetery. No matter the building, the sounds are the same. Last night, what a gift. I made a trip home and oh, my Southern roots. How grateful I am for them, for their strength and for how deep and wide they extend, surpassing boundaries of color and race and wrapping us all together in a dialect of song.

In honor of Owen's 1st day of kindergarten

Chantel's 1st day of kindergarten and Brandon's 1st day of 3rd grade.Picture day at school. Can you find Chantel? (hint below)

A Woman's Influence

The following is from an email I received from an aunt who lives in Tennessee. She gave me permission to post this. My reply follows:

Dear Martha,

I have found your address and even pulled up your blog spot and read with both tears and pride about what you are experiencing. Using a computer is difficult for me and I often delete when I do not mean to. Also, I am totally new to blogs. I sorta of one finger type and have to go back and correct all of the time, so I am slow. But, I am overwhelmed by all that computers offer.

Back to you, what an inspiration you are and what courage you are showing. You look adorable in the wig, too. I always keep you and little Andrew in my prayers. You could not know this, but I have always prayed for Anne and all of you children for years. I am sorry that I have not gotten to know all of you and that you really do not know much about me. But, you may be sure that I have been impressed with all of you and what wonderful people you are. Your father would be so proud of you for he loved you all very much. I do hope that this reaches you as I often get messages returned. This building has poor cable connections and, recently, my carrier was changed. Now that I know how to get your blog, I'll check it frequently and continue my prayers for God's all encompassing love to surround you and your family and restore you to health of mind, body and spirit.

Love, Aunt Claire

Dear Aunt Claire and other readers,

We left Memphis and all family on both sides when I was ten years old and moved to Kansas City. There would be thirteen more moves during the next four years. At sixteen I married and put all my energy into creating and maintaining my own family. My other siblings were scattered, living in other states, but all on the west coast. Eventually I ended up doing what many people were doing in the 80's, and going for psychotherapy. During one visit I realized with clarity that I needed to go home again. It had been almost 30 years. My sister Rachel went with me and we spent a lot of time prior to the trip talking about our excitement and our fears. Aunt Claire you couldn't have known that I was the most nervous about your approval of me. Would I still have manners? Would I act like a lady? Would I be the same Martha that you remembered?

Well, now it's my turn to tell you that even though I loved all my aunts and uncles, you are the one woman I admired and respected the most and I still do. Especially now, when I feel the cruelty of facing cancer alone, I remember that you were widowed and raised two children alone during a time when women had to fight for their right to independence. You were the one who determined your own boundaries and lived by them. Even though you must have shed many tears alone, you are one of the strongest women I know and your example has given me strength and courage.

Since that first visit in 1987, my siblings and I have made other trips home, separately and together, and we've been able to reconnect with family including Uncle Don (now the family patriarch) and numerous cousins. Sometimes I wonder if my life journey will send me back to my roots in a more permanent way. My thoughts these days are never far from my childhood--barbeques in Aunt Claire's backyard with my dad at the grill, chasing fireflies, the giant hydrangea bush next to Granny's back porch, Pop in his rocker with his pipe and the smell of pipe smoke that I love to this day.

Aunt Claire, thank you for your constant love and prayers for us all these years. It's an honor to call you mine and I look forward our next family reunion in Florida. Love, Martha

Black Magic, Black Dress; My Childhood in Clothes 2

Ach, Mutter,This old, black dress, I have been embroidering French flowers on it. [1]

When my mother was a little girl, my grandmother worked as a tailor at the Sears and Roebuck factory down by the Mississippi River, a job she held during the Great Depression and for many years after. She became an expert seamstress.

Mamaw’s hands, gnarled with purple and blue veins and hard pointed fingernails that she filed regularly, were not rough, but they weren’t soft either. Sometimes she painted her nails a soft pink color, but most of the time her hands were busy—hanging clothes on the line—a continuous supply of socks, shorts, and smocks worn by me and my four brothers and sisters, chopping onions, peeling hard-boiled eggs, making the beds with box corners, rubbing our croupy chests with Vicks Vapor-rub, and always—sewing. Her brown wicker sewing basket was always nearby.

She seemed to be constantly patching pants, replacing buttons, darning socks, or embroidering a new face on an old stuffed animal. Her stitches and her imagination could transform something plain into an item of beauty. She made Barbie doll clothes out of fabric scraps and matching night gowns for my rag doll and me. But the most amazing thing she did was to make her stitches disappear while she sewed.

I sat by her on the couch many times as she wet the tip of a long thread with her tongue, then deftly passed the end through the eye of a needle, pulling the two thread ends even with each other, then wrapping them swiftly around her finger and into a secure knot. Into the fabric the needle went, and out again, up and down, every stitch disappearing as she worked. "Over, Mamaw! Let me see the back!" But the backs were always void of stitches too, and Mamaw always laughed at my perplexion. Many times she tried to show me how to sew, but my stitches glared from the fabric like the cracks on the school playground. I felt special whenever I wore something she had made. Store bought clothing just didn’t have the same feel and I began to wonder if Mamaw was magic. But like all Southern women of her time, Mamaw followed the social rules of etiquette, even when sewing, the same rules that governed how a lady looked, acted and even felt:

1) Never wear white in the winter
2) Black is for funerals or adult formal wear, not for children
3) Always wear gloves to church, or carry a pair if you haven't had time to wash them
4) Never carry a purse that doesn’t match your shoes
5) Always carry a hanky—one with your initials embroidered on it if you’re lucky
6) Always wear clean underwear in case you get in a car accident and have to go to the hospital
7) Before you leave the house, make sure your slip isn’t ‘showing.’


One Easter, Mamaw bought matching dresses of yellow and white dotted swiss for me and my younger sister. I don’t know if she was too busy to sew, or the dresses were on sale, but I knew it was supposed to be a privilege to wear store bought. Our yellow dresses screamed "Springtime!” They were delicate and lacey but the feeling wasn’t there.

When we returned home after Sunday services, the rain had stopped but water was still flowing down the gutter. The air smelled sweet and felt balmy and clean. We were leaving soon for Easter dinner at Mamaw's house, and Mama warned my sister and me not to get dirty, but we just wanted to float boats down the street—curled leaves and some empty walnut shell halves, pretending that fairies were going for a ride down a wild river. Fifteen minutes later, my mother’s face crumpled into disappointment when she saw the mud splatters on our new dresses. She hurried to get a rag and soap, but the stains didn’t come out completely.

When Easter came the next year, I was surprised when my grandmother pulled a piece of black velvet from her sewing closet and began measuring me. By the end of the day, I was wearing a beautiful new jumper over a white blouse, but something wasn't right. I turned slowly for my grandmother while she looked the dress over with a crease in her forehead. She tugged on the hem, pulled the dress at the back to test wiggle room, smoothed the jewel neckline. “It fits, Mamaw, it feels perfect!” But she continued to frown. “Aha!” she said a moment later, and reached for her mysterious sewing basket. I watched my grandmother’s hands while she rummaged through various containers: a miniature Whitman’s chocolate box that still smelled like chocolate even though it was full of snaps; an empty mayonnaise jar filled with buttons of every shape and color; a cigar box fraying at the edges, the mysterious contents of which were always changing. Mamaw's sewing basket not only held needles and thread, but zippers, rolls of ribbon and lace, rosettes, hooks and eyes, iron-on patches, thimbles and various small tools—contents that kept me entertained when I was little, and continued to fascinate me later.

Suddenly as from thin air, she held up two pink rose appliqués, one in each hand. “Ohhh!” I had never seen anything so beautiful. I fingered their soft raised texture. Within minutes, Mamaw had sewn one to each shoulder of the dress, the stitches disappearing with each prick of the needle. I viewed myself in the mirror. The pink roses glowed like the first tulips of spring. I smiled at my grandmother's soft expression and she smiled back. Now I had proof positive. I was going to wear black velvet. In the Spring time. To church. On Easter Sunday. My grandmother was indeed, magic.
[1] Wallace Stevens (1879–1955), U.S. poet. “Explanation.”