There was a show at the corner of Main and Center Streets in front of the Post Office. I had the starring role. Here’s the story. Saturday, Juli called me from the IFA store and said they had some red currant bushes and did I want them? I went down to take a look. They were gorgeous plants and I thought—oh, good! After they start bearing, I can make the red currant jelly for our Thanksgiving Snow Pudding. Also, they had some flat-leaf parsley plants and some good looking tomato plants. We probably can’t plant them until after Memorial Day week-end because the weather is supposed to be cold again, but the plants were really moving out of the store so I thought I should get them and bring them home.
Juli offered to load the plants into the back of her car since (she said) the floor was already dirty and no need to get the back of my van dirty. I said, “Okay.” Then Juli told me she would drop her sister, Alisa, off at her home and then come over to my house and leave the plants. I told her I’d meet her at my house. The thought ran through my mind that maybe I had enough time to stop by the Post Office, get my mail and make it home by the time Juli got there. So, I stopped by the Post Office and parked in front. I hurried in and got my mail and was rushing out so I wouldn’t make Juli wait. Now, let me stall the story here for a moment while I tell you that I normally stop at the side of the Post Office, not in front. I didn’t think it would make that much difference. It did. You see, when I walk out the door to go to my car I only put one foot on the mat that is outside of the door and step right onto the concrete. Since I had to go another direction, I had to take two or three steps on the mat. I guess I didn’t pick up my right foot high enough and caught my toe in the rubber of the mat and fell headlong on my face. No one was more surprised than I to find me on the ground. I just lay there for a few seconds trying to assess the damage. I had a couple of spots that hurt but I decided there were no broken bones. I also thought, if I lay here long enough, I can get back up by myself. BUT, I also thought, “Oh, good grief, someone is going to see me.” Someone did see me and stopped to help. It was a lady whose face was familiar to me but I couldn’t think why her face was familiar nor could I think of her name. She offered to help me. I wasn’t sure how she could. I hadn’t had time to think how I would get off the ground if someone offered to help. I made a futile attempt to get up and fell back. The lady asked whether she should call the ambulance and I said, “No, I don’t think I need the ambulance.” Then she said, “Would you like me to call Tal?” Immediately, I was reassured that I was home. Another stranger knew who I am and where I belong. Immediately, I felt an almost overwhelming feeling of thankfulness for the decisions that we have made in my behalf.
Well, to make what could really be a long story, short, I was able to get my left leg underneath me, the lady lifted me under my right arm and I stood upright. After she determined that I was probably okay to drive home, she let me go. Juli was already unloading my stuff when I got home. I told her about my fall. After she satisfied herself that perhaps I was okay, we laughed as I told her that the lady asked whether she should call Tal.
Today, Monday, Tal called me and said, “I didn’t know you fell.” I asked him who told him. He said, “Mom, you live in a small town.” Then he told me the lady’s name: Melanie Grundy. I asked him whether she lives in the Loa Ward and he told me she lives in Lyman. Then I wanted to know why she looked familiar and he said, “She works at the bank.” Ah! Mystery solved.
Am I okay? Yes, I am okay. I have a few bruises on my body but they don’t begin to add up to the number of bruises to my ego.
When I was a senior in High School I had the leading role in the school musical. I had begun to think that would be my only public performance. But---ta-da-I have another leading performance to add to my resume’. My singing role was a whole lot more fun but it was nowhere nearly as dramatic as my performance at the corner of Main and Center Streets in Loa, Utah.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
MOTHERS' DAY TRIBUTE TO MY MOM
I’m working on Chapter Two about my Dad but inasmuch as Sunday is Mothers’ Day, I think I will pay tribute to my mother. In the past few years I have gained a whole new perspective of who my Mother was and though I was quite bitter toward her for many years, my feelings have softened a great deal. You know the old saying, “To understand someone, you need to “walk in their shoes for a mile.” I have tried to “walk in her shoes” in my mind. Today, I’m going to try to explain who she was and why she deserves my understanding.
My mother was 25 years old when she married my father. She came to Blanding with my dad after their wedding and endured a life of hardship, pain, suffering and terror. Oh, my dad loved her and he was as good to her as he knew how to be (almost). But life was hard. There was never much money and there were few amenities to ease her life. She gave birth to seven large babies—I was the smallest at 9-1/2 pounds. The largest was my brother, George, at 12 pounds. She developed horrible varicose veins during her third pregnancy and the varicose veins became worse during each ensuing pregnancy. By her fourth pregnancy the varicose veins had become huge weeping sores on her ankles. The sores were extremely painful and they never healed until 10 or 15 years after I graduated from High School and left home. Finally, at that time, a new doctor with new skills and knowledge, came to Blanding and he tried something “new” and it worked. The sores were finally healed. The scars from those sores never went away. Each time she became pregnant, with extra weight of the baby she was carrying, the pain increased. It must have been almost unbearable. She had to clean and dress the sores every day which was a tedious process. She couldn’t put her feet on the floor in the morning if she didn’t put her elastic stockings on first. She couldn’t put her left heel on the floor. It just wouldn’t stretch out. She always had to put her feet into her regular shoes. She was never able to just slip her feet into a pair of house shoes.
She told me many times that she had not wanted me. I always resented my mother telling me I was not wanted. Perhaps I was not wanted by my mother, but it would have been kind of her not to tell me that. As I told you in my first blog entry, I’ve always been happy that my dad prevailed and I was born. I can understand my mom not wanting to go through the pain of carrying me inside her for nine months but I didn’t need to know that I was not wanted. That was something better left unsaid. I felt unloved by her. She never said anything to dispel the feeling I had that she didn’t love me—not until I was 53 years old. When I was 53 she said, “I love you.” By then, it didn’t matter much. I had other people around me who loved me and were willing to frequently tell me they loved me. My dad always loved me and he made sure I knew that I was wanted. So, you see why my dad is so very special.
My mom was sick a great deal when I was small. Now, I know she went through a terrible menopause. In those days there were no medicines to alleviate the symptoms and not many people had hysterectomies. I could go into gory detail about her menopause but suffice it to say, it was bad. I remember when I was five she was in bed in her bedroom, most of the time. Daddy was away at work and all the other kids were at school so I was there with her alone. I had to keep the fires burning in the stoves so the house would be warm. She told me to be sure to lift the wood high over the coals so I didn’t push the coals to the back of the fire box of the stove in the kitchen, then I was to lay the stick of wood down on the coals so the wood would burn evenly. The stove in the living room was not so difficult to refuel, but I had to do that, too. I cannot imagine having a five-year-old keep the fires burning. But I did it. Then she’d send me out to the root cellar to get some potatoes, carrots and onions to make vegetable soup for the other kids when they came home for lunch. She’d have me wash the vegetables and then take them into the bedroom so she could cut them up for the soup. She’d have me put a pot of water on the stove and she always explained everything very carefully so I wouldn’t get burned or hurt when I did these things. She taught me to peel the vegetables, though she did most of them because I was really slow. Soup wouldn’t have been ready until supper time if I had tried to peel all the vegetables. Then she’d cut them up and tell me how much salt to put into the pot. I’d put the vegetables in the pot and when the pot started to boil she’d have me use a couple of hot pads to pull the pot to a “not so hot spot” on the stove. (It was like turning down the heat on our modern-day ranges.) Sometimes we had a soup bone to put into the soup to give it some flavor. Sometimes, the older kids would clean some beans and put them to soak at night and the next morning I’d see to it the beans got cooked so they’d have some lunch. I guess, during the time mom was so sick, my older siblings made bread in the evenings because we always had bread. There was no school lunch in Blanding, in those days.
Mom taught me to tell time. We only had one clock. At night, Daddy took the clock into the bedroom but in the morning he would take it into the kitchen and put it on top of the dish cupboard. Mom would tell me to look at the clock and then tell her which number the big hand was on and which number the little hand was on. She would tell me what time it was and she very thoroughly taught me to tell time. I learned to tell time very quickly so I didn’t have to tell mom where the big and little hands were. Digital clocks didn’t come into existence until many years later, at least not for general use.
When the food was cooked, lunch eaten and the dishes washed and dried, she would tell me to get the Chinese checker board and marbles. She taught me to play Chinese checkers and I learned so well that I was occasionally able to beat her. I was always so proud when that happened. And, I could almost always beat my brother, George, at the game. We also played some card games together i.e., “Authors,” “Old Maid,” “Rook,” etc. Sometimes she’d read to me but I had learned to read so sometimes she’d have me read to her. Occasionally, she would have me sweep the floors or dust the furniture. The Fall after I turned six I started 1st Grade and mom got better so she could be out of bed most of the time.
At some point in my mother’s life the Doctors’ surmised that she had a mild case of Polio. They were not absolutely certain but it was their best guess. As a result of that, she wore a size 6-1/2 EEE shoe on her left foot and a size 9AA shoe on her right foot. That meant she had to buy two pairs of shoes when she needed new shoes, or, she had to have her shoes made for her. Generally, it was cheaper to buy two pairs from Sears-Roebuck. She always wore a shoe that laced up the front and had a 1-1/2-inch “block” heel. AND she still had the open sores from the varicose veins.
She couldn’t walk very far and when she did walk she always had a great deal of pain. Occasionally, if there was a problem with a cow (when Daddy was out of town) she’d have to go milk the cow. We had one cow that enjoyed being a problem. Mom seemed to have a calming influence on her. When my Dad was out of town it was my brother, Durant’s job to milk the cow. Sometimes when he tried to milk her she would stick her foot in the bucket or kick him or knock him down with her head. I remember him with a bloody nose several times. On those occasions, mom would go and milk that ornery old cow. The cow’s name was “Lade” (don’t ask me). Lade never gave my mom any problems. You may wonder why we kept that ornery old bovine. Well, she was a huge cow. And she gave more, rich milk than any cow we had ever had—or would ever have. She gave 14 quarts of milk every morning and 14 quarts every night. We could hardly afford to get rid of her. Mom would make butter and sell it and get a few cents to help get the things we needed. She, along with others in town, shipped cream in a three or five gallon can to a creamery in Grand Junction, Colorado and got a few dollars from that each week. Mom helped with the garden when Daddy was away. In the Summer and Fall she had fruit and vegetables to bottle and when the weather got cold, Daddy always slaughtered a beef, pig and lamb. All that meat had to be taken care of—we had no refrigerator or freezer—so much of the meat was sealed in glass jars and pressure cooked so we could have meat to eat. When she was able, she made at least one big batch of bread every week—sometimes two, depending on circumstances. She took care of the milk, cream and butter. Her left leg was so painful that she kneeled on a chair with her left leg and dragged that chair around the house and kitchen to do her work. When Daddy was home he always helped her as much as he possibly could and all of the kids pitched in to help with everything. BUT, it was mom who had the load to carry. She was in charge. There was work to be done and it was her responsibility--also, the laundry, ironing, house cleaning, bed making and everything that goes with being a mom. As I said, we all pitched in and did as much as we could but when you’re a mom—well, those of you who are moms know what I mean. If mom worked in the garden, she kneeled on a rug of some kind because she couldn’t stand very long. I don’t know how she kneeled so much. My knees just won’t let me kneel longer than a couple of minutes at a time.
I have to give my Mother credit for what she did. Her life was not easy. She was terrified of the Indians. She had terrible health problems. She always had to make one penny do the work of two. Perhaps she just couldn’t help being mean sometimes. As I got into my teens she wasn’t speaking to me three-fourths of the time. At first, I cried and begged her to talk to me but my begging did no good. She would only talk to me when she got “good and ready.” Finally, I got over caring whether she talked to me or not. Most of the time, I honestly did not know why she wouldn’t talk to me. I want you to know that many times I wanted to scream at her. I thought then and I still do, that she was very unfair. But, I NEVER screamed at her. I never even talked back to her. When I spoke to her it was always with respect. It wasn’t that I thought she deserved my respect but there is a Commandment: “Honor thy Father and thy Mother.” I did that. It doesn’t say you have to love your father and mother—it says “Honor” them. I knew I could not honor her if I disrespected her. Besides, I wanted my Dad’s respect. I would never have had his respect if I had disrespected my mom. He knew she was unfair to all three of his daughters but she was our mother and for that reason, Daddy expected us to treat her well. She really liked her sons but she seemed to view her daughters as competition. I think Daddy was as confused by her actions as we girls were. Both my older sisters “sassed” her. I am not trying to say that I was “the perfect child” but I never “sassed” or “talked-back” to my mom and I am proud that I can tell you that. For that reason, I think my Dad had a special place in his heart for me.
There is something else, as well. I absolutely have a clear conscience as regards my mom. My mother gave me life. Whether she wanted to or not. She did. It was a long, painful ordeal for her. She taught me many things that have served me well throughout my lifetime. She endured many hardships and much pain to raise her family. For that, she deserves my gratitude. I guess the best thing she taught me was: I wanted to be a different kind of mom to my kids. I think I was.
I am envious of women and girls who have a great relationship with their mother. I feel sorry for my mom. I feel sorry that she didn’t want a fun relationship with her daughters. She missed out on some terrific times. She never knew that I’m a fun person. She never knew what a great sense of humor I have. I missed out not knowing my mother better. I missed out because she hardly ever told me anything about when she was young. I would like to have known more about what she did. I would have liked to hear about her mother—what she was like and what she did.
One of the times we went to Blanding to visit my folks, a neighbor saw us there and came over to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes and then he said to me, “You look like your mother.” At that point, I was not feeling very kindly toward my mom and I wasn’t flattered at his remark. We were outside my mom’s bedroom and the window was open. I knew my mom was in her bedroom. My first impulse was to tell the neighbor he was crazy. But I knew mom would hear whatever I had to say so I said, “Oh, do you think so?”
He said, “Yes. When your Dad first brought your Mother to Blanding, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” I was somewhat humbled by his remark and simply said, “Thank you.”
In the second paragraph of this chapter I told you that my dad was “as good to my mom as he knew how to be (almost).” I should clarify that. My mother loved fireplaces and always wanted one. When my dad made the final addition to the house she begged him to build a fireplace for her. He didn’t. I think she felt a little bitter about that. I suspect the reason he didn’t build it was that it would have cost a lot more to build a fireplace and build it right, and he just didn’t have the extra money. So sad.
My suggestion to all of my grandchildren is that you “Honor” your parents. You may never know the sacrifices they have made for you. Some are sacrifices requiring a great deal of courage but they were willing to do it for YOU. All parents make mistakes raising their children. They don’t have Master’s Degrees in how to be a parent. Most of us learn through trial and error. I didn’t mean to preach. I apologize for that.
Anyway, I pay tribute to my Mother this Mothers’ Day. I thank her for giving me life and I thank her for the practical things I learned from her. I thank her for being who she was so I could become who I am.
And now, for the May Birthdays: Happy Birthday to: Dave who turned 50 on May 6th; Ali, May 7th; David, May 8th; Patti, May 27th; Waiva, May 31st. Hope you all had or will have a Great Day.
I love you all.
My mother was 25 years old when she married my father. She came to Blanding with my dad after their wedding and endured a life of hardship, pain, suffering and terror. Oh, my dad loved her and he was as good to her as he knew how to be (almost). But life was hard. There was never much money and there were few amenities to ease her life. She gave birth to seven large babies—I was the smallest at 9-1/2 pounds. The largest was my brother, George, at 12 pounds. She developed horrible varicose veins during her third pregnancy and the varicose veins became worse during each ensuing pregnancy. By her fourth pregnancy the varicose veins had become huge weeping sores on her ankles. The sores were extremely painful and they never healed until 10 or 15 years after I graduated from High School and left home. Finally, at that time, a new doctor with new skills and knowledge, came to Blanding and he tried something “new” and it worked. The sores were finally healed. The scars from those sores never went away. Each time she became pregnant, with extra weight of the baby she was carrying, the pain increased. It must have been almost unbearable. She had to clean and dress the sores every day which was a tedious process. She couldn’t put her feet on the floor in the morning if she didn’t put her elastic stockings on first. She couldn’t put her left heel on the floor. It just wouldn’t stretch out. She always had to put her feet into her regular shoes. She was never able to just slip her feet into a pair of house shoes.
She told me many times that she had not wanted me. I always resented my mother telling me I was not wanted. Perhaps I was not wanted by my mother, but it would have been kind of her not to tell me that. As I told you in my first blog entry, I’ve always been happy that my dad prevailed and I was born. I can understand my mom not wanting to go through the pain of carrying me inside her for nine months but I didn’t need to know that I was not wanted. That was something better left unsaid. I felt unloved by her. She never said anything to dispel the feeling I had that she didn’t love me—not until I was 53 years old. When I was 53 she said, “I love you.” By then, it didn’t matter much. I had other people around me who loved me and were willing to frequently tell me they loved me. My dad always loved me and he made sure I knew that I was wanted. So, you see why my dad is so very special.
My mom was sick a great deal when I was small. Now, I know she went through a terrible menopause. In those days there were no medicines to alleviate the symptoms and not many people had hysterectomies. I could go into gory detail about her menopause but suffice it to say, it was bad. I remember when I was five she was in bed in her bedroom, most of the time. Daddy was away at work and all the other kids were at school so I was there with her alone. I had to keep the fires burning in the stoves so the house would be warm. She told me to be sure to lift the wood high over the coals so I didn’t push the coals to the back of the fire box of the stove in the kitchen, then I was to lay the stick of wood down on the coals so the wood would burn evenly. The stove in the living room was not so difficult to refuel, but I had to do that, too. I cannot imagine having a five-year-old keep the fires burning. But I did it. Then she’d send me out to the root cellar to get some potatoes, carrots and onions to make vegetable soup for the other kids when they came home for lunch. She’d have me wash the vegetables and then take them into the bedroom so she could cut them up for the soup. She’d have me put a pot of water on the stove and she always explained everything very carefully so I wouldn’t get burned or hurt when I did these things. She taught me to peel the vegetables, though she did most of them because I was really slow. Soup wouldn’t have been ready until supper time if I had tried to peel all the vegetables. Then she’d cut them up and tell me how much salt to put into the pot. I’d put the vegetables in the pot and when the pot started to boil she’d have me use a couple of hot pads to pull the pot to a “not so hot spot” on the stove. (It was like turning down the heat on our modern-day ranges.) Sometimes we had a soup bone to put into the soup to give it some flavor. Sometimes, the older kids would clean some beans and put them to soak at night and the next morning I’d see to it the beans got cooked so they’d have some lunch. I guess, during the time mom was so sick, my older siblings made bread in the evenings because we always had bread. There was no school lunch in Blanding, in those days.
Mom taught me to tell time. We only had one clock. At night, Daddy took the clock into the bedroom but in the morning he would take it into the kitchen and put it on top of the dish cupboard. Mom would tell me to look at the clock and then tell her which number the big hand was on and which number the little hand was on. She would tell me what time it was and she very thoroughly taught me to tell time. I learned to tell time very quickly so I didn’t have to tell mom where the big and little hands were. Digital clocks didn’t come into existence until many years later, at least not for general use.
When the food was cooked, lunch eaten and the dishes washed and dried, she would tell me to get the Chinese checker board and marbles. She taught me to play Chinese checkers and I learned so well that I was occasionally able to beat her. I was always so proud when that happened. And, I could almost always beat my brother, George, at the game. We also played some card games together i.e., “Authors,” “Old Maid,” “Rook,” etc. Sometimes she’d read to me but I had learned to read so sometimes she’d have me read to her. Occasionally, she would have me sweep the floors or dust the furniture. The Fall after I turned six I started 1st Grade and mom got better so she could be out of bed most of the time.
At some point in my mother’s life the Doctors’ surmised that she had a mild case of Polio. They were not absolutely certain but it was their best guess. As a result of that, she wore a size 6-1/2 EEE shoe on her left foot and a size 9AA shoe on her right foot. That meant she had to buy two pairs of shoes when she needed new shoes, or, she had to have her shoes made for her. Generally, it was cheaper to buy two pairs from Sears-Roebuck. She always wore a shoe that laced up the front and had a 1-1/2-inch “block” heel. AND she still had the open sores from the varicose veins.
She couldn’t walk very far and when she did walk she always had a great deal of pain. Occasionally, if there was a problem with a cow (when Daddy was out of town) she’d have to go milk the cow. We had one cow that enjoyed being a problem. Mom seemed to have a calming influence on her. When my Dad was out of town it was my brother, Durant’s job to milk the cow. Sometimes when he tried to milk her she would stick her foot in the bucket or kick him or knock him down with her head. I remember him with a bloody nose several times. On those occasions, mom would go and milk that ornery old cow. The cow’s name was “Lade” (don’t ask me). Lade never gave my mom any problems. You may wonder why we kept that ornery old bovine. Well, she was a huge cow. And she gave more, rich milk than any cow we had ever had—or would ever have. She gave 14 quarts of milk every morning and 14 quarts every night. We could hardly afford to get rid of her. Mom would make butter and sell it and get a few cents to help get the things we needed. She, along with others in town, shipped cream in a three or five gallon can to a creamery in Grand Junction, Colorado and got a few dollars from that each week. Mom helped with the garden when Daddy was away. In the Summer and Fall she had fruit and vegetables to bottle and when the weather got cold, Daddy always slaughtered a beef, pig and lamb. All that meat had to be taken care of—we had no refrigerator or freezer—so much of the meat was sealed in glass jars and pressure cooked so we could have meat to eat. When she was able, she made at least one big batch of bread every week—sometimes two, depending on circumstances. She took care of the milk, cream and butter. Her left leg was so painful that she kneeled on a chair with her left leg and dragged that chair around the house and kitchen to do her work. When Daddy was home he always helped her as much as he possibly could and all of the kids pitched in to help with everything. BUT, it was mom who had the load to carry. She was in charge. There was work to be done and it was her responsibility--also, the laundry, ironing, house cleaning, bed making and everything that goes with being a mom. As I said, we all pitched in and did as much as we could but when you’re a mom—well, those of you who are moms know what I mean. If mom worked in the garden, she kneeled on a rug of some kind because she couldn’t stand very long. I don’t know how she kneeled so much. My knees just won’t let me kneel longer than a couple of minutes at a time.
I have to give my Mother credit for what she did. Her life was not easy. She was terrified of the Indians. She had terrible health problems. She always had to make one penny do the work of two. Perhaps she just couldn’t help being mean sometimes. As I got into my teens she wasn’t speaking to me three-fourths of the time. At first, I cried and begged her to talk to me but my begging did no good. She would only talk to me when she got “good and ready.” Finally, I got over caring whether she talked to me or not. Most of the time, I honestly did not know why she wouldn’t talk to me. I want you to know that many times I wanted to scream at her. I thought then and I still do, that she was very unfair. But, I NEVER screamed at her. I never even talked back to her. When I spoke to her it was always with respect. It wasn’t that I thought she deserved my respect but there is a Commandment: “Honor thy Father and thy Mother.” I did that. It doesn’t say you have to love your father and mother—it says “Honor” them. I knew I could not honor her if I disrespected her. Besides, I wanted my Dad’s respect. I would never have had his respect if I had disrespected my mom. He knew she was unfair to all three of his daughters but she was our mother and for that reason, Daddy expected us to treat her well. She really liked her sons but she seemed to view her daughters as competition. I think Daddy was as confused by her actions as we girls were. Both my older sisters “sassed” her. I am not trying to say that I was “the perfect child” but I never “sassed” or “talked-back” to my mom and I am proud that I can tell you that. For that reason, I think my Dad had a special place in his heart for me.
There is something else, as well. I absolutely have a clear conscience as regards my mom. My mother gave me life. Whether she wanted to or not. She did. It was a long, painful ordeal for her. She taught me many things that have served me well throughout my lifetime. She endured many hardships and much pain to raise her family. For that, she deserves my gratitude. I guess the best thing she taught me was: I wanted to be a different kind of mom to my kids. I think I was.
I am envious of women and girls who have a great relationship with their mother. I feel sorry for my mom. I feel sorry that she didn’t want a fun relationship with her daughters. She missed out on some terrific times. She never knew that I’m a fun person. She never knew what a great sense of humor I have. I missed out not knowing my mother better. I missed out because she hardly ever told me anything about when she was young. I would like to have known more about what she did. I would have liked to hear about her mother—what she was like and what she did.
One of the times we went to Blanding to visit my folks, a neighbor saw us there and came over to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes and then he said to me, “You look like your mother.” At that point, I was not feeling very kindly toward my mom and I wasn’t flattered at his remark. We were outside my mom’s bedroom and the window was open. I knew my mom was in her bedroom. My first impulse was to tell the neighbor he was crazy. But I knew mom would hear whatever I had to say so I said, “Oh, do you think so?”
He said, “Yes. When your Dad first brought your Mother to Blanding, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” I was somewhat humbled by his remark and simply said, “Thank you.”
In the second paragraph of this chapter I told you that my dad was “as good to my mom as he knew how to be (almost).” I should clarify that. My mother loved fireplaces and always wanted one. When my dad made the final addition to the house she begged him to build a fireplace for her. He didn’t. I think she felt a little bitter about that. I suspect the reason he didn’t build it was that it would have cost a lot more to build a fireplace and build it right, and he just didn’t have the extra money. So sad.
My suggestion to all of my grandchildren is that you “Honor” your parents. You may never know the sacrifices they have made for you. Some are sacrifices requiring a great deal of courage but they were willing to do it for YOU. All parents make mistakes raising their children. They don’t have Master’s Degrees in how to be a parent. Most of us learn through trial and error. I didn’t mean to preach. I apologize for that.
Anyway, I pay tribute to my Mother this Mothers’ Day. I thank her for giving me life and I thank her for the practical things I learned from her. I thank her for being who she was so I could become who I am.
And now, for the May Birthdays: Happy Birthday to: Dave who turned 50 on May 6th; Ali, May 7th; David, May 8th; Patti, May 27th; Waiva, May 31st. Hope you all had or will have a Great Day.
I love you all.
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