MOM OBVIOUSLY TALKED IN CODE

All of my growing up years we bottled food. Green beans, corn, peaches, pears, cherries, etc. We had a little room on the far end of the house that seemed to always be cold. It was lined with shelves and the shelves were filled with home canned food, and store bought food that we couldn't can, like tuna. Mother was never "out" of anything and she had enough for a couple of years worth of most things.

This room was called the "fruit room." It was built as a storage room. It had one tiny window with no glass, just screen. A down pillow, just that size, was in the recess of that tiny window and it was moved to the side of the window, a little bit or a lot, depending on how much outside air mom wanted in the fruit room. In the winter that room was cold enough that she kept the Thanksgiving leftover turkey in there. (I know, I shudder at the thought, but we never got sick from food poisoning, not one time.)

I once asked her why she canned and bought so much food.

"It's for the Californians," she said. "There will be trouble in California and they will come here for refuge and we will feed them."

I was young. What did I know.

Then today I got an email from a dear friend (Hi Kim!). This was in it:

Mother obviously knew this. She knew everything. And now I know. Zombies, not Californians, were coming. (Although I lived in California for four plus years. I should have known.)

And now you know. You've been warned.

ANGELS ATTEND ME

I haven't blogged in a long time. I haven't even looked at my dashboard so I don't know who else has blogged. I have been in a funk. Maybe it's the time of year. Maybe it's circumstances I'm dealing with. Maybe I am just so tired of this life, so tired of the struggle, the drama, the uncertainty that I didn't want it to rub off on anyone else.

I've been desperate for relief. My sister and brother-in-law gave me a blue light to help with the depression. I have sat in front of it three or four times in the morning. Today two angels came to my rescue. Colette and my daughter-in-law, Sharee.

Colette called me on the phone and we talked for a l-o-n-g time. She was concerned because I haven't blogged. I have never met Colette in real life. We email and I follow her blog. She has a kind and generous heart, not to mention a beautiful voice.

Sharee came over and did Reiki on me, bringing some relief. As much relief as the Rieki was the talk, she spent as much time as I needed. She reassured me and loved me and told me something that took a big chunk of my stress away. Angels, both of them, worrying about me, loving me, helping me.

I believe we are never actually alone. I believe we are always attended by someone, family, that has passed on. I really do believe this. I think Mom was here with me today (oh, how I miss my momma), but I can't crawl up on her lap like I did when I was five and tell her my worries and about my hurts. (For one thing, if she weren't dead already, my sitting on her lap would probably kill her. A little depression humor for ya'.) I would love to hear her say words of comfort and maybe even a timeline like, "This worry will be resolved in February, that one will be resolved in March." I don't know if our relatives have that information but if they did it would be so joyful to have a little reassurance.

Our last prophet, President Hinckley used to say something that everyone loved. He said, "Everything is going to be all right." He said this over and over. He was optimistic but he also had knowledge we don't. He said it, I believed it and yet what's the matter with me that I don't believe it enough to be comforted?

So, I'm blogging to just say I'm here. Healthy, except for the bad food I've practically inhaled over the holidays. I'm breathing in and out. I'm trying to be "up." Usually I can see the funny side of life and this will probably be funny, too, in a year.

I have a list I keep at the bottom of my personal history file. I call it: HOW TO COMBAT STRESS/DEPRESSION/HEARTACHE

I have 28 items on that list--or maybe 27 as I seem to have prayer listed twice. Tonight I am going to start with one of them and work my way through. I'm going to start with number 15: Journaling. Write the worst of it down. This is not necessarily a journal you will want anyone to ever read. There is something about writing it out that helps. It’s better if it’s hand written, there is something about physically moving the pen on paper that helps get rid of the fear, depression, sadness, etc. I’m not saying it’s foolproof but it does help.

And before that list are some quotes I've saved. These seem to be meant for me tonight. And Colette and Sharee were meant for me too. I honor both of them and am thankful they are in my life.

1. Be thankful that sometimes God lets you struggle for a long time before that answer comes. Your character will grow; your faith will increase. Richard G. Scott, “Using the Supernal Gift of Prayer,” Ensign, May 2007, 9 (Don't tell, but Elder Scott is my favorite apostle. I have loved every conference talk he has ever given, and when I see him I feel loved, even though I am watching him on TV.)

2. We should honor the Savior’s declaration to “be of good cheer.” Matthew 14:27; Mark 6:50; John 16:33. Jeffrey R. Holland, “The Tongue of Angels,” Ensign, May 2007, 18

3. This is my prayer for all of us. 'Lord, increase our faith.' Increase our faith to bridge the chasms of uncertainty and doubt. . . . Grant us faith to look beyond the problems of the moment to the miracles of the future. . . . Give us faith to do what is right and let the consequence follow. President Gordon B. Hinckley Panama City Panama Fireside, January 20, 1997.

So, I've got to hurry and journal all my worries because I need to get to bed at some kind of a reasonable hour because church starts at 9:00 am, as opposed to last year when it started at 1:00. That's enough to depress a night owl like me, isn't it? Wouldn't it be nice if that were all that's wrong with me?!

MISSING MOM

Tonight Phil and I watched the movie The Peaceful Warrior--I highly recommend it. Because of that, it's late and I'm not up to much cleverness--as usual, actually--I don't have any of Mrs. Bird's or The Scottish Dreamer's stories--Mrs. Bird was here on the lawn swings last night but I didn't get any good stories--it was so darn cold we could hardly talk--and I'm out of nonsense to blather about. So, I'm posting a thought I wrote the other day about my mom when I was missing her. The "missing her" seems to be coming more often now. Anyway, here it is:


First and Last

A daughter first, and at the end.
She'll gather me like a child,
with skinned knees.
"I've been misssing you," she'll say.
"Me too," I'll say and over her shoulder I'll see my two dads,
my sister, and the children I never knew.

And it will begin.

LAUGHING IN THE CARD SHOP

Years and years and years ago Mom and I stood at the card display at ZCMI. We laughed so hard we had to lean on each other to keep from falling over. People coming down the escalator from the second floor didn't know what to make of us. Some smiled and some looked away, maybe they were embarrassed to see two grown women being so silly. I secretly think they might have been a teeny bit jealous that we were such good friends and were having such a good time with each other.

I have looked back on that day time and time again, feeling happy I had that funny time with my mom and then sad that I would never have another one.

Today was a tender mercy day for me. Pam and I had gone to the mall to buy a gift for a friend's birthday. Then we needed a card. We found beautiful, sentimental ones. I bawled, and told her about my difficult week. She sympathized and said, "There, there."

I wiped my tears and we found the "other" section. Soon we smiled. The smiles turned into grins and then into laughter and then...well, it was like time had backtracked. I felt like Mom was there, leaning over our shoulders, laughing with us. We read card after card, some so silly they made no sense and yet were hilarious.

I thought I would remember the caption on this one but can't. Isn't he something? The fun must never stop for him.

This is a perfect visual of my life. I should have bought it and framed it. It's funny, isn't it? You have to laugh when your life's like this. Pam, laughing at yet another funny card. A friend who is willing to be there for me in good and bad times. What would I do without her?And Mom? I know she was there, I just know it. I'm so glad she got to see that the laughter in the card section is alive and well.

THE ABC'S OF GRATITUDE--M

M--Mom. I am so grateful I have had the opportunity to be a mother. A mom. Maauum. And even Ma. I remember with tenderness the days I was the children's mommy. What tender, cherished days those were.

I am grateful for my own mom. I am who I am, in a large part, because of who she was. She was who she was, in large part, because of her angel mother. And so it goes, back through time, all the way to mother Eve. How lucky I am to belong to that great wave of womanhood. How lucky I am to have two daughters, who can ride the wave into the future. What wonderful moms they are and will be. And my sons? They have chosen wisely and their children have, and will have, wonderful moms, too.

If I would have had a crappy mother it would have been just what I needed to learn and grow. Even at our worst we are good for something. I say I'm lucky to have had a gentle mother, a loving one but what of all the great people who didn't? Where would they be if they had lived with gentleness. Maybe they needed a different upbringing to reach their potential.

Don't get me wrong. I think love is the most important emotion in the world but what if...? Sometimes we have to experience what we don't want in order to know what we do want. Or to know what we want to be.

THE COMPLICATED LIFE

Today I did not have a personal history story written for group. This is almost the first time in two years that I have not been prepared.

The women in the group let me talk after everyone else had read and I talked about the book. The book. The book where I am exorcising my ghosts. One ghost. The loss of my birth dad.

I am beginning to realize this book cannot be about my loss alone. My sisters lost too, especially Julie--who will be referred to as the troll occasionally in the book. Poor Julie to be portrayed in such a way--she hardly resembles a troll at all. Anyway, I have a hot tempered scene in my head between me and the troll, who, I will have to call something nicer because she put up with "the brat" all those years and has never been properly thanked for it.

Mom had the biggest loss of all. Julie told me some of the details of what happened after my dad's death. Mom tried to hold the business together but the physical work was overwhelming.

I have another scene with her and Aunt Dee trying to make mattresses but their strength just wasn't enough. It will have to be a dialogue scene, painted by the speaker--haven't decided who that will be yet--who watched and participated more than I did. I just ate dirt, probably, and peed my pants.

So, the book is getting more complicated. Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is going through while we merrily waltz Matilda--that is if we know how to waltz and we know Matilda and if she doesn't want to lead. We should always be on the lookout for subtle signs that someone else is in distress--that someone is suffering, is sad, is grieving or even is angry.

I told one of my son's once to, "Watch for the signs." (This was after he teased Gilmore Girl to the edge of insanity and she broke down and cried.) He said, "What signs?" He honestly didn't know. Some of us are more in tune that others but it's a skill that can be taught. Sadly, sufferers aren't likely to say, "Hey listen. I'm having a crappy life. Could you cut me a little slack here?" So we go on our merry way, not helping, not loving or being compassionate. Judging. Often judging.

Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is dealing with. I wonder if we could be a little more careful. Watch for the subtleties. The sighs. The forced laughter. The silences. The countenance that is devoid of joy. The heavy hands that hang down.

I wonder if a word of kindness would help. A hand on the shoulder. An "I'm sorry." Hardly ever can we change things, but we can listen. We can let the other know, maybe even just by a look, that we might understand, maybe only 10% but that's better than nothing. Maybe even if they see us eat some dirt and pee our pants they could say to themselves, "Well, at least I'm not that bad." Maybe it would help.

I don't think it helped my Mom or my sisters. I was just one more detail that had to be taken care of but maybe it did help. Maybe it gave them something to take their mind off their loss. There is nothing so delightful as a two year old and maybe I was there, at that time for a reason, more than I know.

Anyway, life is complicated, isn't it? I wish we could have a visual image that shows how we are all connected and then a visual image that shows how we have helped one another. I'll bet we would even be connected to Kevin Bacon somehow. Maybe in as little as four steps.

ADDICTED TO LOVE

Today, in Sunday School, the teacher, Jeanne Inouye, said she had a friend who once said she thinks we were all born addicted to love. She said we left our Father, who loves us so much that we cannot comprehend it, and when we are born we are in withdrawal. Well, I don't think she actually said that last part but I think that's what happens.

We get here and we bond with someone, for me it's my Mom--"I miss you Mom, every dang day I miss you," and then we spend the rest of our lives trying to prove our Independence because we think loving someone that much is a sign of weakness so we do stupid things to show we will run our own lives, thankyouverymuch, and we end up hurting the one we love the most.

Sometimes it's hard to love completely because things happen:

Some rottenlittlestinker children, who do what a rottenlittlestinker children do, make fun of you in one way or another or exclude you or do some other rotten-stinker-behavior to you and you shut down a little bit.

Then a teacher belittles you because her husband said she burned the eggs and, "yes, those pants make your rear end look big, because it is big," and so she takes it out on you and you shut down a little bit more.

Then the boy you like in high school likes the cheerleader, who obviously is not up to his standards and you are, but he can't see it. He doesn't ask you out to Prom and you shut down a little more. The cheerleader won't give him the time of day, by the way, and so he shuts down a little bit too and thinks he's not worthy of a decent girl, when there you are, all decent and waiting. This actually happened to a boy I know. It took him YEARS to get the courage to even date.

And time passes and other things happen and then you fall in love and the one we love stores memory and then uses it later--not in a good way. "Well, you told me that you..." and then they tell some embarrassing PRIVATE thing you told them that they shouldn't use against you. They might say, "I didn't know that would hurt you," or "Don't be so sensitive," or some other nonsense. So, you shut down a bit more.

Then someone at work pulls a dirty trick and takes credit for your idea and if you make a stink you will be branded a trouble maker and so....

You get the idea.

And then the children come. And, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, you love them totally and completely. And they think they are supposed to be independent and they pull away and you love them completely anyway and then you understand God a little bit and you are amazed. After all, he is God and he must love you way more than you love your child and then you can't believe the good luck you have, to be loved like that.

And then you forget it and let the world interfere and so, I am here to remind you. Don't you forget it. Don't make me come down there.

BATHING IN A BUCKET

Lord Bumhampton climbed up on my lap. I nuzzled his little neck, he smelled of summer. Sometimes I’d lick my children’s arms just to smell the rich summer fragrance. It made them laugh, to see, and feel their mother licking their arms.

“I should take him in and give him a bath,” I said.

Mom didn’t say anything.

“I really should,” I said, halfheartedly.

“You know,” she said in a quiet voice, swinging the lawn swing with a slow rhythm, “there’s nothing says he has to bathe in the house. When I was a kid we bathed in a tin tub. Even a bucket would do.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I set the bucket of warm water on the patio and tried to persuade my boy that bathing in a bucket was going to be fun. He wasn’t buying it. Getting naked in the back yard was out of his two-year-old comfort zone.

I swirled my hand in the water. He did too and soon he was splashing and laughing. He hardly noticed as I stripped his clothes off. When they were in a pile he stepped into the bucket and stood still while I soaped a washcloth and washed his plumb tummy, his arms and legs. I soaped the summer smell off his neck, then scooped water and let it cascade over his head. Water ran down his summer-browned arms and dripped off his fingers. I soaped his round little bottom and he laughed. Mom smiled.

When he was rinsed off I bundled him in a towel. Mom dried his hair with a corner of it and then wrapped the towel around him, tucking the end in so he could walk around. We called him our little Tongan.

I dumped the water on the grass. He poked at the wet grass with a stick and then came to get dressed. He climbed on my lap and snuggled down.

The stars came out; there were more stars then, city lights were fewer. Lord Bumhampton fell asleep.

We swung in the dark for a long time--Mother, daughter and grandson, his breath warmed my breast. He sighed in his sleep. Mom and I smiled in the dark and talked softly.

It was a night made of magic. Thin magic. Warm-toast kind of magic. I didn’t know it then, but it was also the future’s I-wish-I-could-go-back-in-time kind of magic. We stayed on the swing long after the stars filled the sky with specks of light and the crickets courted.

We were three generations. Maybe we were watched over by unseen generations, the ones who had gone before and those unborn, waiting to come, maybe one of those unborn was Lord Bumhampton's little sister, Her Excellency of Mousehole. I like to think that’s true. Maybe Lord Bumhampton's future children were there too, there might have been many generations, stretching in the distance on both ends, and the three of us, in the middle, swinging together, held together, by silken family threads, one summer night, so long ago.

THIS AND THAT and HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

Are your kids like this? Wanting to do something nice for mom but each having a different vision of what nice is? Certainly nice to your siblings isn't in the picture.

And my daughter-in-law has started a blog. She is one funny girl.

And DeAnn mentioned me on her blog. That's not why I recommend you go there. I recommend it because anything DeAnn says is note worthy and because she has a brand spanking new step-mom and she already loves her. I am so relieved. I was worried.

And yes, I am happy that DeAnn has blogged. She is going through a major stress and is working through it. As so many of us are. She talks about her mom hating Mother's Day. I did for years, for exactly the same reason DeAnn's mother did. I focused on my inadequacies. I think any woman who raises kids will feel inadequate. We forget that each child learns in a different way. Some by listening to wisdom, some by ignoring wisdom and stepping in front of the bus. But, they all learn and who are we to say, "'Do it my way."

So, for today, for tomorrow, which is Mother's Day, I am saying thank you to my own mom for letting me step in front of the bus and being there in case I happened to ask for a Band-Aid, which I didn't, but should have. Things turn out all right.

My own mom was not perfect but she was the perfect mom for me. She did lots of things you do or your mom did or maybe neither one of you did. She didn't do things she maybe should have and she did things that were good, too. SHE DID THE BEST SHE KNEW HOW. We all do. And for that I think God is standing in the wings, clapping and saying, "You go, girl."

So, I hope every mother has a good Mother's Day, whether they think they are living up to their standards or anyone else's. I'm having company over and guess what? The kitchen floor is sticky. There's some dehydrated spinach there that is going to take some major scrubbing to get off--I'm not going to do it, not today, anyway. The bathroom is not spotless, in fact the garbage isn't even dumped. I'm not going to worry about it. I'm going to cook some food, make a salad, butter some bread, slice some strawberries and pour yogurt over the top and call it good. Mostly I'm going to love everyone who comes and that's what's important, I think. That's what mother's do.

YOU'VE MADE ME A LIAR FOR FIVE CENTS

Yesterday I was sitting on the lawn swings, talking with a neighbor. Her kids came home from school and stopped to chat. We started talking about the weather and I mentioned, "It isn't windy here." I have to mention that right at that moment there was a breeze blowing.

The teenage girl looked at me as if I had nothing in my head by dust mites. She said that the wind was blowing--RIGHT THAT VERY MINUTE. She didn't shout but I felt shouting in my ears.

I knew the wind was blowing--I thought she knew that it was a relative statement. I explained it to her. We are against the mountains and the winds, coming out of the many canyons, miss us. Occasionally we get wind but not like the rest of the valley does.

So, there I sat, feeling like a liar. I was defending my statement DURING a breeze. No wonder the teenager called me on it.

Then I remembered a time when I was a kid. I was shopping with Mom. She was telling someone about a bargain. There wasn't much that gave Mom more pleasure than a good bargain. I interrupted her to tell her she had made a mistake. I was SURE she would be delighted to have the correct information.

She was not delighted. She was embarrassed in front of her friends. "You've made me a liar for five cents," she said.

I was confused. Just like my neighbor's teenage daughter was confused. The wind was blowing and I said it didn't. My mom got a bargain but she paid five cents more than she said she did.

And now, I understand one more incident that happened all those years ago with my Mom.

Instead of trying to defend myself I wish I had said, "You're right. Of course the wind blows here. It's blowing right now." We could have laughed.

And I wish Mom had said, "Oh, you're right. I did pay five cents more. I forgot." I wish she would have laughed.

Then I wouldn't have felt guilty all these years.

ARE WE AMBULANCE CHASERS?

There were sirens tonight that sounded like they stopped in our neighborhood. We got in the car to go see who was in trouble. There were so many sirens I thought perhaps there was a group heart attack.

It was the first fire of the season, up a little canyon about a half mile away. Too early in the season for fires. Some years are really bad here, forest fires, fires right in town from kids playing with matches or fireworks, fires on the mountains, which are so close. Fires in little canyons, which are abundant right here in town.

Deer live in these canyons. There are homes above the canyons, homes below the canyons and deer wandering through the neighborhood. Years ago the deer stayed in the mountains but now there are small groups of deer all around us, year round.

As soon as we found a group of people congregated on the sidewalk we stopped for the "scoop." It was one of the women in my writer's critique group, her husband and her mom and sister--who are visiting from Idaho. I was so happy to meet them. The mom, who raised this remarkable woman, said, "She just came good. I never had to do a thing."

Amazing! Truly amazing. I am so jealous, both of the remarkable woman who "came good" and of the mom who raised her.

I was not an easy teenager to raise. I am so sorry, Mom. You always told me, "What goes around, comes around." I have paid, I think. And yet I would not trade any of my children, who were not so easy either, for anything in the world. They are wonderful people.

Well, this post didn't exactly go where I thought it would but I'm glad it did. Mother's Day is coming and I'd give anything to be able to apologize to my angel mother. I'd like to tell her how much I adore her. I would say something like, "See, Mom, I've turned out all right." And then I would get one of her wonderful hugs. Oh, how I would love one of her hugs.

She loved me. She still loves me. I think she watches over me, too. So, I will say, "I love you, Mom," occasionally, right out loud just in case.

WHERE DO YOU FIND BARGAINS?

Tonight I went to a gardening and canning class. The woman who presented the canning lecture says she finds all her canning jars at garage sales. She said her husband "garage sales" with her.


Lucky woman. Phil won't even slow down when we pass one and actually calls attention to mythical creatures on the other side of the road so I won't notice. "Look'it, Lynne! A wombasit-rambler, right over there, see it?" He points, aggressively and speeds up until the garage sale is a faint blur in the back window.

Earlier this week I talked to a friend who says her daughter-in-law is the queen of bargains. She once paid 49 cents, at Kid-to-Kid, for a brand new pair of shoes. The shoes didn't fit her daughter . She put the shoes on the shelf and waited for her daughter to catch up to them. She also found brand new boys socks for 17 cents and bought every single pair the store had.

This same friend once bought a gallon of soy sauce and a gallon of Worcestershire sauce for $1.99 each.

She says she thinks they will last her the rest of her life and is tickled pink to have found that great bargain.

My mom was another queen of the bargain. She used to say things like, "Look what I bought for two bucks, these cute pants!" Note: Not picture of actual pants. I know it's hard to believe but it is, once again, an example of my excellent art work.

I would roll my eyes. Who would want fuchsia pants at any price?

But she did find lots of great deals that didn't involve the color fuchsia. She used to burst into the house after a shopping spree and say, "Reed, you won't believe how much money I saved you today!"

What a charmer my bargain shopping mother was. Dad was always glad to have been of help, providing all the lovely money for her bargains so she could save him all that money, practically on a daily basis.

Another friend of mine says she loves two kinds of tags in stores. "Sale" and "Compare to..." She had a darling new purse the other day and I told her so.

"Oh," she said. "I got it at TJ Maxx. The tag said, 'compare to $799.00.' Okay, so I paid $125.00 but compared to $799.00? What a deal!" Her eyes lit up like sparkly things at Christmas. I hate to tell her this but this purse looks somewhat similar and it's only $489.00

So, there's deals and then there are deals. Maybe I'd pay two dollars for fuchsia pants quicker than $125.00 for a $799.00 purse--or a $489.00 one.

Phil would probably be as happy as Dad was about Mom's purchases, as long as as it was only two dollars and as long as I didn't buy them at a garage sale .

MY GLAMOROUS SISTER and UNGLAMOROUS ME part 1

My sister, Her Imperial Majesty wanted to be glamorous. She stood endlessly in half finished dresses while Mother pinned and tucked and basted, trying to get them just exactly right for her daughter-of-royal-birth.

There would be pins sticking out like the quills of annoyed porcupines, threatening to tear the flesh off anyone who got too close. Her Imperial Majesty would walk, with extreme care, to the bathroom and then would stand in front of the full length mirror, corkscrewing, trying to see if it fit her waist tight enough. She would purse her lips in that movie star sort of way and look down her nose, practicing, I think, to snub those of less nobility. Practicing to snub me, for sure.

Her small waist was enviable, smaller than mine and I was nine years younger. Someone once told her that she was built like a Coke bottle and that made her deliriously happy. That wouldn’t be a compliment now, but then Coke bottles were nipped in at the middle. She spent a great deal of time in half finished dresses saying, “Can you just take it in a little bit more, right here?”

I thought having Mom make a dress was a big fat waste of time. She once made a dress for me out of patterned corduroy, which I might actually have liked if she hadn’t turned one piece of pattern the wrong way and the nap of the corduroy was pale. The rest of the dress had beautiful, rich autumn colors.

I wouldn’t wear it. Mother tried all sorts of persuasion.

“It looks perfectly fine,” she said.

“Mom, this whole side is a different color.”

“I don’t see it, I cut it out of the same piece of fabric. It looks EXACTLY the same to me.”

We had an endless discussion about the possibility of her being blind and me being stubborn and in the end I didn’t wear the dress.

Mom said she’s give it away to someone who appreciated her slaving over a hot sewing machine. I don’t know who that would be; perhaps the Indians who Mom was always telling me she was going to send me back to. I had seen the Indians and they wore beautiful velvet skirts and wonderful turquoise jewelry and had that blue black hair I envied so much. I knew they wouldn’t be bothered with a corduroy dress with the nap running the wrong way.

The dress was like one of those cars you see with one purple door while the rest of the car is white. They are usually driven by teen-age boys who are happy to be driving anything because their insane insurance rates are so high, or by old retired men who have no dignity left and just want to get out of the house. So, I think the dress never did find a home and it will turn up on ebay one day and it will receive no bids.

Her Imperial Majesty was the designated recipient of all of Mother’s sewing ambitions. Mom actually made her wedding dress. That was a month and a half of pure patience on Mother’s part and a month and a half of Her Imperial Majesty marathon pickiness and extreme desire to have every stitch perfect so she look like the princess she knew she was born to be.

Mom also made my bridesmaid dress, a sky blue creation and turned dark blue with the least trickle of perspiration. I had to wear dress shields so I wouldn’t look like the sweaty thirteen year old that I was.

When Puberty revved up all her interesting little hormones she gave me an extra dose of underarm glands and the only reason I survived teenager hood was because my cousin had the same runaway glands and I had someone to cry with. My cousin was all-things-beautiful and so I felt that someday the Universe would in some way compensate me for my great sweaty trial as it had her, DURING her great sweaty trial. I felt it was worth waiting for, and so I endured. I’m still waiting but when the great compensation comes I will be so happy and fulfilled.

To be continued.

GRANDPA DANIELS AND THE CHOCOLATES

~Parts of this are "somewhat invented" but the chocolates and Grandpa are as true today as they were all those years ago.~

"Aah." Grandpa sank into the couch.

"Get the box of candy for Grandpa, will you?" Mom said.

I drug my feet into the kitchen. I knew what was in the candy box. Two chocolates. Both had been squished. A white nougat, no one liked those, and a mystery brown one that had been squished so long ago that it was petrified. I wasn't the only guilty one but I was the only one that was home.

"Here, Mom," I handed the box to her as nonchalantly as possible. Grandpa patted the spot next to him.

Mom shook the box. Empty wrappers, rustling and two thunks. I had that sound memorized. Every almost-empty candy box in the history of my life sounded just like that.

"Hum," she said as she peered inside, poking the petrified candy, "Maybe we need a new box." She looked at me and raised one eyebrow. I sank into the cushions behind Grandpa.

I listened. There it was, the faint screech of the fruit room door. I had searched the fruit room dozens of times. There wasn't any candy in there, but here she came, working the ribbon off a fresh box of chocolates.

"Here we go," Mom wadded the cellophane into a ball. She opened the box and handed it to Grandpa.

He brought the open box to his nose and inhaled. "Mmm, there's nothing like the smell of chocolate, is there, Sis?"

"I dunno, I guess so." I had never stopped to smell a box of candy, There wasn't time to smell when you were in the candy cupboard. You had to be quick. Open the box, grab one that might be promising, shut the box and then try to remember the exact way it was sitting. Had the box been a little bit crooked? Closer to the edge or further back? There wasn't time to fuss, you had to get off the bar and out of the kitchen quick.

"Well, let's see," Grandpa never rushed. "The one with the double swirl is a raspberry creme. This one with a V is a vanilla creme."

"You can tell what's inside?"

"Sure, that's how you know what to choose. See this here? This oblong one with the two squiggly lines? That's a caramel."

Caramels were my favorites but the awful jellied ones were oblong too . Lots of oblong jellies, with a corner bit off, had been thrown in the bushes next to the front porch. Mom found a swarm of ants there one day and couldn't figure out what had attracted them. Ants obviously didn't care if they got inferior candy.

"What do the jellies look like, Grandpa?"

"Like those do you? Here you go. They have an X on top, from corner to corner."

"But Grandpa..."

He closed the box and bit into a chocolate. "Mmm, chocolate truffle. One of my favorites." He handed the box back to Mom and she took it into the kitchen. The chocolate was starting to melt. I changed hands and licked it off my fingers.

"Well, go on," Grandpa said, ruffling my hair. "I picked a good one for you."

I smiled as best I could and bit a corner off.

"Well?" he asked. "How is it?"

"Grandpa," I whispered. "I hate jellies. It's the caramels I like. That's why I asked what the jellies looked like, so I wouldn't ever pick one."

"Well, now," he whispered back. "We're in a predicament, aren't we?" He cleared his throat. "I think I'll just have another chocolate," he called to Mom. "I've got a powerful sweet tooth today."

"What about your diabetes?"

"I'll eat carrots and broccoli for dinner, I promise."

"Dad!"

"I will, I surely will."

Mom opened the box and Grandpa picked up an oblong with two squiggly lines. When she went into the kitchen he traded chocolates with me. He wrapped the jelly in his clean white handkerchief.

I bit into the caramel. "Aren't you going to eat that one?"

"Ah, Sis," he said, ruffling my hair. "I hate jellies."

"What are you two laughing at," Mom called from the kitchen.

"Nothing," we chorused together. I leaned into Grandpa's side, he put his arm around me and pulled me close. I could hear the clock ticking and an early cricket starting to chirp somewhere outside. I licked my fingers and looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back. We sat there together for a long time until Mom called me to set the table for dinner.

THINKING OF MICE (24 years ago)

Women are supposed to sew clothes for their kids. That’s what I thought. I didn’t like to sew. I didn’t want to sew. But I was supposed to sew, especially since Aunt Dorothy had given me a sewing machine a long time ago, a sewing machine that would have been collecting dust if it weren’t tucked neatly into it’s case. In the closet. In the spare room. Behind a closed door.

I decided to make some pajamas for four-year-old Bentley. I bought seersucker fabric in a cute print—it would be cool for summer, I thought. But summer came and they still weren’t made. Bentley slept in large T-shirts. I don’t know why I didn’t think this was okay. I fretted about the pajamas all summer. Because I was supposed to sew.

Mom and Dad came up to see us in late July. “Why don’t you just get in and make them,” she said.

“I don’t know, Mom. You sew all the time. You like it. Every time I sew I end up giving the half finished, awful looking item to DI. I hate it. Why don’t you take the fabric home and make the jammies? You can give them to Bentley for his birthday.”

She thought that was a good idea and so did I. On his birthday there was a soft package wrapped with bright colored curly ribbons dripping off the top. Mom and Dad were anxiously watching him open the gift we all knew he’d love. He took the paper off and stood there. No emotion. Nothing. His eyes looked at the ceiling. I thought maybe he didn’t know what they were.

“They’re jammies,” I said.

The ceiling-looker said nothing.

I took them out of his hands, shook them out of their folded state and said, “See? Jammies,” They looked like they'd fit perfectly.

Nothing.

“Don’t you like them? Grandma made them just for you,” I said.

“I’m thinking of mice,” Bentley said in a quiet voice.

Everyone in the room leaned forward, even the kids, Trent, Taylor and Hillary. “What?” everyone said in unison.

“I’m thinking of mice.”

I looked at Mom. I could tell her feelings were a little bit hurt. “If you don’t like them I know a little boy in Annabella who would love them. Should I take them to him?”

Mother had used this tactic on me all my life. If there were something I didn’t like she threatened to give it away. It worked on me because I was probably selfish but Bentley knew what he liked and what he didn’t and he didn’t like those jammies.

“Okay,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

I never did find out what Mom did with the jammies. I didn’t want to remind her that her ungrateful grandson didn’t like her gift so I never mentioned them again.

“I’m thinking of mice,” has become Snyder family code for “I really don’t like this but I’m too polite to say so right to your face.” It hasn’t been used a lot, but enough. I’m thinking of mice right now, as I write this story that I really can’t do justice to.

MOM'S DETERMINATION, PART II

Yesterday I wrote the beginning of this story. My sister called earlier today and I asked her what she remembered about the story. It wasn't the finishing of the house that Mom got the loan for; it was making the house into two apartments. Mom and the girls would live in one side and rent the other side out and then Mom would sell the apartments and pay Mr. Porter back. Also, it wasn't Pocatello, Idaho but Milford, Utah. So much for the facts as I knew them.

I will go back in a few days and correct the first part of this story. I also realize I've changed tenses in the two stories. I may correct that; I may not. In the meantime, here's the rest of the story. Remember, this is my attempt to write it in my mother's words. That's what writer's do; put words in people's mouths. Much of this I remember word for word from my darling mother but so many of the details are coming right out of my imagination--this is one of those times when it really is "Lynne's somewhat invented life," but it's my Mom's life I've invented. I somehow feel it's okay. Maybe she's here tonight, reading over my shoulder.

Here we go, part II.

I had the loan from Mr. Porter. I nearly danced home and when I got closer I ran. My hair came undone, I know I looked like a wild woman but I didn't care. I yelled and the girls came running. I swept them up in my arms and we twirled and twirled. They laughed and squealed. I tipped my head to the sky and whispered, "Thank you, Father. Thank you."

I put the girls down, we held hands and ran the rest of the way home, my purse dug into my side with every other step but I didn't care. My neighbor smiled and waved and then gave me the thumbs-up sign. She didn't have to ask. She knew I got the loan.

The girls and I walked through the house. "Here is where the wall will go, right down the middle. That side will belong to the other apartment and this side will be ours." They didn't understand, but they knew one thing: they had a Mom who wasn't walking the floor, worrying and fretting and being too distracted to read bedtime stories or play dolls with them or make Mickey Mouse pancakes with big ears. They had their old Mom back.

I got on the phone the very next day. I called contractors and lumber yards and appliance stores. I found a contractor who would let me help with the work so it wouldn't cost me as much. I learned how to knock out walls and hammer and screw things together.

I learned why you couldn't tear down some walls because they were bearing walls. I learned how to insulate so you couldn't hear conversation from one apartment to another. I learned how to tell if a wire was "hot" and why you had to hire an electrician and not do the wiring yourself. I learned that it was cheaper to put kitchen sinks together, one on one side of the new wall, the other on the other side. The same with the bathroom sinks and bathtubs. I learned why you didn't put water pipes against outside walls in this cold winter country.

I found that I had to tie my hair up with a dishcloth or it would be glued together with plaster by the end of the day. Plaster wasn't so good for the complexion either but I didn't care. Who was I trying to look good for anyway?

The girls were curious and got in everyone's way. I hired the neighbor to watch them. She didn't want to take money but she watched them for so many hours everyday I insisted. I knew I wouldn't be around to be her friend after the apartments were done. I hadn't told her. I couldn't. She had been so good to us.

I worked without rest. If the contractor didn't show up I called his wife.

"I have other jobs I have to do too, Mrs. Paschal. If I leave them without showing up I'll loose the job and I've got to keep everyone happy."

'Then let me know you won't be here and tell me what to do while you're at another job. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"I guess so. Gads, woman, you've got my wife on my tail. 'You get over to that woman's house and help her out, Earl. You can't leave her hanging.'"

We laughed as he talked in a high-pitched voice. From then on he told me every time he wasn't coming the next day. He showed me what to do and I did it. Occasionally he had to re-do something, but not often.

I did all the painting. I learned it didn't pay to buy cheap paint. I leaned that about a lot of things. Buy the best and don't waste. Measure twice and cut once. The contractor was full of advice, which I tucked away in case I would ever need it again.

DeLynn came to help put the finishing touches on things. I was so happy to see her. She spoiled the kids, they needed spoiling, they deserved spoiling. We sat up late at night. Me, listening to all the things she hadn't put into letters. We held hands as we sat on the bed. I cried when she told me hard things she and my other siblings had gone through. Both of us laughed over the funny things her little girl had said, the mischief she got into.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

I didn't have an answer. I was going to go home--home to family and then I would decide. But first we had to finish the kitchen in the other apartment. The appliances were being delivered the next day and then we were done.

We turned out the lights and laid in the dark. We wondered out loud why our lives hadn't turned out like we thought they would.

"I love you, sis. Thanks for coming."

I love you too. I hope this is hardest thing you'll have to ever face."

It wasn't. I'm glad I didn't know it then. There is wisdom in not knowing the future because in some instances there would be no future. Half of us would walk off a bridge somewhere, thinking we couldn't handle a troubling future when in real life we can handle it, one little bit at a time.

We were up early the next morning, making French toast and flinging bits of eggshells and bread crusts at each other. The kids watched, wide eyed. They'd never seen their mother like this, irresponsible, wasting food, deliberately making a mess. But it was a day for celebrating. By noon the project would be done. I could put a for sale sign up and hope for the best. Mr. Porter would be paid, I'd have cash in the bank and could get on with my life.

The appliance truck came at 9:00 AM on the dot, just like he'd promised. It was a small town and the contractor had the word out: If you didn't do as promised, Mrs. Paschal would call the wives. Everyone showed up on time.

The stove in the new apartment was beautiful, clean, not like the used one on our side. I put, "scrub the stove," on my mental list of things to do. The sink and cabinets and counters were already in. The fridge was unboxed and on the porch, ready to go in when the man said some frightening words.

"I don't think it will fit through the door." He took out a measuring tape. He measured the fridge. He measured the door opening.

"Nope. Won't go through."

"We'll take the door off. That's easy to do," I said.

"Well, yes, easy, but the fridge is too big to go through the door at any rate. It won't fit. Do you want me to take it back and bring a smaller one?"

I didn't want a smaller fridge. This one was perfect. It had a dent on one side at the bottom, the side that would be covered up with a cabinet. It was a bargain and heavenly days; I loved a bargain. Besides that, a smaller fridge just wouldn't do. And a smaller fridge would actually cost me more.

"What do you think," I asked DeLynn.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "It looks like it will fit to me."

"Me too."

"Ladies, look at this." He pulled out his measuring tape. He measured the fridge. "See here?" We looked. Then he measured the door opening. "See here? One eighth inch. There's no way I can get that fridge in with one eighth inch leeway. I'll have to take it back."

I looked at DeLynn. "We can do it," she mouthed behind his back, nodding her head.

"No, leave it here. If I change my mind I'll call."

"There'll be an extra charge if I have to take it back later."

I nodded. He tossed the cardboard in the truck, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He loaded his dolly, got in his truck, slammed the door and left. We watched until he was out of sight. Then we looked at the fridge and then looked at each other. She grimaced and shrugged. I shrugged too.

"Okay, then. We'll just "walk" it in and be done with it. Right? It might take a little bit of time but we can do it."

We took the door off and leaned it against the wall in the kitchen and then DeLynn and I "walked" the fridge. We walked it until noon. She was trapped in the new apartment so I went to the other side and made sandwiches and pushed them over the top of the fridge.

"Good thing the bathroom is functional," she said. We laughed and joked and walked the fridge until dinnertime.

The kids had wandered around all afternoon, making me hold them up to the kitchen window so they could wave at their Aunt Dee. They played in the dirt and played with rocks, they rocked their baby dolls and were as good as gold while their insane mother and equally insane Aunt walked and walked and walked a fridge that didn't want to be walked.

"I've got to go feed the kids."

"I know it. I'll be right here." She snorted. I snorted too and then we laughed. "What have we got ourselves into?" she said from the other side of the fridge. I didn't have an answer.

I went home and got the kids some dinner and then took her a plate and pushed it across the top of the fridge. I went back and got the kids ready for bed. She sat on the kitchen floor and ate and then waited. When the kids were all settled I came back and we walked and walked and walked that doggone fridge. At 2:00 AM we were done.

"I knew it could be done," she said dancing around the kitchen, swinging her hips. "What does that appliance man know, anyway?"

We laughed and hung on each other with fatigue. We walked the fridge into place, it took about two minutes, we plugged it in and then we stood back and looked at it. We both sighed at the same time in the same way. We leaned the door against the opening and went next door to bed. We laid in the dark.

"I'm sorry I said I thought the fridge would fit through the door."

I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. I tried to be quiet so I wouldn't wake the kids but the more I tried the harder I laughed. DeLynn laughed too.

"What will happen when this fridge dies on day and the owners have to replace it?"

"They will have to tip it over on its side and turn it into a couch because there's no way it's going out that door."

"It will be a 'cool’ couch.”

"One with shelves for holding books and pop and boxes of Kleenex."

"It will have its own light, for reading by."

"Easy to clean, just wipe it down."

We could hardly talk for laughing. The light went on in the hall.

"Uh oh, Pat's up," I whispered.

She stood in the door, rubbing her eyes. "You woke me up."

"Come here, baby," I opened my arms and she climbed in bed and snuggled down. "This is what it's all about, isn't it?"

"Yes," DeLynn said. "This is what it's all about."

And now, all these years later--sixty-seven years later--it's still true. It's about family. It’s about determination that makes all things possible, even moving a fridge through a door that's too doggoned small.

MOM'S DETERMINATION, PART I

I don't know if Mom's trials made her determined or if she was determined from the start. Two days ago I gave you the story of Mom's first marriage. Today is the first part of the story of what happened after Fred died. I'll try to do it in her voice. I don't remember the name of the banker, even though Mom told me countless times. I'm going to call him Mr. Porter. Here we go:

The last bit of dirt was smacked down with the back of the shovel. That was it. Fred was buried. I stood, holding Pat and Julie's hands. Would they be like him? Would they remember him? Maybe Pat would, Julie was only two, probably not, for her.

I want to go home. Home to my family. Home to Dad and Aunt Lizzie, home to Bliss and Tom, Lillian and DeLynn. Home to cousins for my little girls. Home where I can have help. I'll have to make a living. I can't do it without help. I want to go home but I have the house, here in Pocatello. Half finished. I could sell it cheap but if I finish it, I'll have more money to start with. More money for whatever I have to do. Alone. No, not alone. Together with my girls.

The bank opens at 9:00 so I'm here at fifteen minutes till. I sit on the bench by the door. My feet close together, my skirt tucked tight around my legs, my purse clutched on my knees. I polished it and my shoes last night. My hair is tidy, lipstick on, nose powdered. I clutch my arms to my sides in hopes of keeping the perspiration contained. It's not hot but I feel hot. I should have had a drink of water before I left the house. I could spit cotton.

Here comes Mr. Porter. It's ten minutes to nine. He takes his keys out of his pocket, looks at his watch and opens the door. It closes and I hear the key turn again. In seven minutes I hear the key turn again and the blinds on the door are opened. I see his hand turn the sign to "Open." The clerks start arriving. I stand up, pull my skirt straight and open the door. It's cool inside. The overhead fan is turning with a slow whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

"Can I help you?" a friendly looking man says.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Porter." I say it as if I have every right to be here.

He motions to a chair and I sit on the edge. In a few minutes I'm shown into Mr. Porter's office. I wipe my free hand on my skirt and extend it to him. He shakes it and motions for me to sit down.

I introduce myself and tell him my story. He nods. I'm encouraged. "What do you have as collateral?" he asks.

"All I have is the house. When I finish it I can pay you back, but I've got to have money to buy materials."

He temples his fingers in front of his nose. Then he sighs.

"Well," Mrs. Paschal, "I'll give it to you straight. Without collateral I can't loan you ten cents. It's not my decision, I have partners and a board of directors and those are the hard and fast rules. Times are hard. I'm running a bank and it has to make a profit. I'm sorry."

He stands up. I'm dismissed. I shake his hand and walk out through his door, through the bank and out the front door. I'm half a block away when the tears start. I duck into a doorway and wipe my eyes, take a deep breath and walk home to get the girls from the neighbor.

"Did you get the loan?" she asks.

"No, but I will."

And then I take the girls home.

Every morning I am sitting on the bench at fifteen minutes to nine. Every morning Mr. Porter avoids my eyes and every morning I am ushered into his office. Every day he says he's sorry and every day I say I will be back until he gives me a loan.

One morning he doesn't avoid my eyes. "Good morning, Mrs. Paschal. Won't you come in?" He takes me in and locks the door behind himself, just like every morning but I'm on the inside this time.

We sit down in his office and he says, "Mrs Paschal, I can't give you a bank loan. You know that."

I start to say something and he holds up his hand. "You'll be here every morning, asking for a loan until you're too old and feeble to walk. and I'll be dead and buried by that time."

I smile.

"What I'm going to do, Mrs. Paschal, is give you a personal loan, out of my own pocket because someone as persistent as you will pay me back. You will, won't you?

I nod my head and start to say something.

He holds up his hand again. "So, Mrs. Paschal, this loan won't have paperwork. Bring your bills to me and I'll pay them and keep a running total. When you sell the house you can pay me back. With interest. The going rate. Will that be okay?"

I'm speechless and just nod my head again.

"I thought so. Shall we shake hands on the deal?"

We do. I walk out with him and I realize I have a bank loan in less time than it takes for him to unlock the door for the tellers.

I order the materials and Mr. Porter pays for them. I hammer and patch and paint. DeLynn comes to help. Mr. Porter is about to get paid back but first we have the kitchen appliances to order and get in and then I can sell the house. As soon as it sells I can pay off my loan and we can move home. DeLynn is going to stay with me until the very end.

To be finished tomorrow....

MY MOTHER'S FIRST LOVE

This is a story I wrote about my darling mother's first marriage. This marriage ended about eight years later when her husband died in a car accident, leaving her with two little girls, my sisters. Most of this story is true. Part of it is made up--the little details--because Mom is no longer here to tell me those details and what's a story without a few interesting details?

Fred was a railroad worker but not the soot covered kind. He wore fresh clothes and dressed like a gentleman. I could hardly breathe when he came into the drug store. All the girls in the drugstore where I worked had a crush on Fred. He flirted with me—me, a little country girl.

When he asked me out I didn’t know what to say and when he kept taking me places, week after week, month after month, I was dumbfounded. Then, one night he asked me to marry him. I was over the moon. All the girls I worked with were jealous.

The justice of the Peace married us. I wore a pale pink suit and Fred brought me a corsage of fresh flowers. He gave me the most beautiful rings I had ever seen. The engagement ring was of silver with lacy filigree with a huge diamond. He gave me a wedding band that matched, silver lace with four perfect diamonds. He spent every bit of his money on those rings and payed for them for a long time afterward, too. I wore them all my life, through all the husbands after him, after he died and Reed died, too. I wore them always. I don’t think it bothered my other husbands because they could never afford rings like that.

I guess I never got over my first love, Fred . I wonder if any woman ever gets over her first love.

We were poor and it made no sense to get married when we were that poor but we did it anyway. We were so in love. Fred worked for the railroad and so he asked if we could use an abandoned railroad car that was just off the tracks. That was our first home. It was tiny but we didn’t care. The train rumbling by woke us up for the first couple of weeks but after that we slept right through. The train whistle didn’t wake us either.

I fixed the boxcar up cute. I made curtains for the windows and we had a little stove in there. We stoked the fire up good at night but by morning it was so cold that our bucket of water was frozen. We would make a fire and put the bucket on to thaw and when it was warm Fred would strip down and wash all over. I never looked at him totally naked. He laughed and tried to get me to but I just couldn’t.

I never saw a man totally naked until I was in my seventies even though I had been married to four different men by then. My daughter told me that men were funny looking and so I finally got up my courage and looked at my husband. The next time I saw my daughter I told her I had finally seen a man naked and that she was right. We laughed until we had to sit down and wipe our eyes. I think we laughed as much that it took me all those years to look at a man as about the fact that men are funny looking.

That first morning after Fred and I were married I got up and put on two pair of socks and all the petticoats I had and some pants under them and my sweater and my coat. I thawed the water and made breakfast for my brand new husband. It was the breakfast I grew up having. Biscuits and gravy. I loved biscuits and gravy. While I was fixing it Fred got ready for the day and when he was all ready I had him sit down and I proudly put the plate in front of him.

He took one look at it and said, “What in the 'blank' is this?”

I didn’t think a man should swear at his brand new bride and I tried not to show I had my feelings hurt.

“It’s biscuits and gravy.”

“Well, I’m not eating it. Good grief. Who eats this stuff? I’ll eat at the hotel.”

He got up and put the plate in the dishpan, buttoned his coat and left. He forgot to kiss me.

I stood there, with a fork in my hand. “I eat stuff like this,” I said in a tiny voice. “My dad and mom and all us kids ate stuff like this all our lives.” And then I threw myself on the bed and bawled like some kind of a baby. I reached out and pulled the covers all the way over me and burrowed down and sobbed. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye.” I said into the emptiness of the boxcar.

I fell asleep. When I woke up I was nearly late for work and I still had the fork in my hand. I threw it as hard as I could and one of the tines bent. I bent it back but it always had a little wave it. We only had two forks and from then on I made sure I always ate with that one. I didn’t want Fred to ask what had happened to it. I didn’t want to tell him I had thrown a fork at him after he was gone, that he made me angry, that I felt stupid and like a little country girl when he was sophisticated.

I dumped the biscuits and gravy in the weeds at the side of the tracks where I knew a stray cat or dog would find it. I never made that for breakfast again, not once in my whole life. I kept the fork all these years and I still have it in my sock drawer. When I die my girls will find it and wonder if I ate secretly while choosing nylons and socks. I take it out sometimes and run my fingers up and down the wavy part where it was bent. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years. I just have.