The Fifty-Five Gallon Drum

I must say that I hate to admit this particular story: 10th grade and I am in a seminary class at Viewmont High School. As I sat four chairs from the front, my teacher was asking us to describe our mothers. I of course was somewhere else. It was after all spring and baseball was in the air, girls were dressed in less, and one had just said yes to a dance. My turn came without notice or warning. Now that's not really true, I had a lot of warning, but I was off in Never Neverland. So in my mind, I had no warning, just "Eric describe your mother" boomed the teacher. Startled out of my trance I simply said the first thing that came to mind, "My mother has the shape of a 55 gallon drum." Silence and then a whack across the back of my head by one of my classmates. "A beautiful 55 gallon drum," I stammered. Whack again to the back of my head.

    You have seen the picture of my beautiful mother that graces this blog, but the only way I ever knew her was how she is pictured in our family picture in the Rock House. She was always heavy and if she worked on losing weight I don't remember it . She had longer hair when she was young, but again I only knew her with shorter hair, always dyed until she moved to the Farmington home where she allow the gray to start it take over. I only remember two hair styles that she wore; one combed and curled up, and then one that was brushed straight back. She wore little make-up. Her lipsticks were often dark reds and maroons and she would often apply a small dab on each cheek and rub it in for blush, very little eye shadow or mascara, and she used an eyebrow pencil. Mother wore no permanent jewelry. Her wedding ring was cut off by dad twice because her hands had swelled up. Earrings were clips because she had no piercings or tattoos that I knew of. Mom had several operation scars but only one accident scar that I knew of from when a steer decided to gorge her right side just under her ribs.  Mother never smelled bad in any way, she had problems with her teeth and many were fixed and replaced. I saw my mother in various states of undress but never thought much of it. Now why would I go to this kind of detail?

   Well you see my mother was beautiful. That's how I saw her always. My best friend Scott Fugate's mom was tall, slender, dark-haired, and pretty, but Scott would often tell me how beautiful mom was. As children, young men, men, husbands with beautiful wives, and fathers with daughters, that opinion never changed, why? Mom was certainly not what the world would consider beautiful if you read the description above, yet beautiful is and was the best word to describe my mother. So I have spent the last while trying to quantify my conclusions.

    I have watched with admiration as I have watched my daughter who has struggled with her weight her entire life shed 70 lbs and become what the world and especially the world of men consider a beauty. It has amazed and saddened me that the truth is the for most people "beauty is only skin deep" as the attention she now receives has changed with her appearance. Yet like my mother, she is no more beautiful than she was before. She will be unhappy when she reads this, but the truth is, in my eyes she has been, and will continue to be stunning, beautiful, and special.

   So first, the emotion that you have with the person helps determine the beauty you behold, and lessen any concern of what others might think.
   Second, as you have experiences with the person and develop bonds of trust and love, these strong forces help mute the flaws and blur the imperfection that we all possess.

I love this quote;

"People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within."

-Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Finally: Mom's beauty was infectious because there was nothing made-up, put-on, or dress-up about it. She was who she was. I'm sure it didn't make her feel good to be described as a fifty-five gallon drum, yet even after I told her the story and she laughed about my situation, I was welcomed with open arms as my mother told and showed me how much she loved me. Well, that love made her beautiful in my eyes and in most everyone's eyes who came in contact with her for any amount of time. It's what Scott felt and saw that I hope we remember, learn, and share with those around us.

Gertrudism #14  There is beauty in all things, but can you see it?

Roses, A Vase, and a Lifetime of Understanding

It has been a busy time, full of surprise, wonder and events that quiet frankly have had me astonished at how circular the world and our experiences seem to be. The latest, was the quick wedding of my eldest son. Some 32 years ago my mother was required to experience a similar event when Shauna and I were wed.

   Shortly after we were married, my mother asked me if there was a special piece of china she could paint for us (of course I thought she meant for me being newly married) and I  knew right away what I wanted. I told her a vase with the Salt lake Temple on one side and her testimony on the other side.
She gasped, gulped, and coughed and then in typical Gertrude fashion pulled the Greenware catalog down for me to choose from. Her only requirement, which I thought peculiar, was that it must have a shape pleasing to my eye, one that I could gaze upon and see beauty. Odd as the request was, I searched through the various types of vases until one came into view one, that to this day as I look at it reminds me of the beauty and grace of woman's body. Interesting that I am disclosing that now since I have never mentioned that to anyone except my mother when she had asked what I saw in its shape.

  Assignment for my nieces and nephews : I know that there is something that your parents look at longingly or value an object of some sort. An example of this is the watch I wear, it is of the finest workmanship and valued by society due to its name. I have worn it almost every day for the past 32 years and my youngest son Ethan will receive it upon my death because it has his and my initials on it. Yet its real worth is written on the belly of the watch, an inscription from my wife, given to me when we were married. It reminds me each day how well she understood me from the very start of the adventure we have undertaken.
 Find the story behind their treasure and you will find their heart.

  The vase is 20 inches in height and one of the challenges was to paint a square building on a curved surface, I watch as my mother sketched four, then five, then six times the outline, finally with brush in hand the black base was applied and to my surprise around the entire temple was a ring of roses.

  As you know roses were my mother's favorite flower. I think because they came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. From the black magic rose, a deep purple, to the pure white, and every shade in between. Yet they were all the same family. Giant roses the size of softballs, and small delicate ones no larger than a quarter, ones that grew strong heavy stems, some that climbed and some that bushed up. Mom always found comparison in nature to life. All of her children are of the same family, yet we vary in so many different and beautiful ways. We are all part of a family, community, country, and human race, not one is alien. If we are if fact to learn anything from my mother's existence on this earth then is should be that "Charity Faileth Not and Judges Not." I watched my mother do what she could to better herself until the day she died because that's what she had the ability to control, her action, her belief , her faith. Not once, and I have tried to remember, did I see her tell another person how they should live their lives, she wasn't afraid to say how what she believed was true, but she never told me I had to believe it also.

  Roses are funny plants. Some take direct sun, others like shade, some like lots of water, some little if any, rich dark loam help some to thrive, while sand and pebbles for others. Many gardeners have even graphed two different roses together to create a new type of rose never seen before in nature. More than once we moved roses and adjusted soil in my mother's rose garden so that the individual plants could thrive and blossom to their best.  Mother certainly experienced this with her health, the places she lived, and the challenges her family faced. Each of us get the same opportunity for growth. Sometimes we struggle, sometimes we thrive, most of the time it depends on our willingness to learn and the trust we place in the Gardener.

The vase got three firings of the black on the temple, then mom got sicker....one day while visiting, she asked me to get the vase from the china room. She told me she knew she would die before she would finish it, so she had written her testimony on a paper and placed it inside. She then looked at me squarely, which was my clue to pay attention, "Eric you have the talent ,understanding, and courage to finish this. When the time comes, you will. " Mom died not long after that.

My eldest son max was married recently, very much like I was. I love him dearly and his new wife
and it was a joyful, wonderful day.

Yes mom, I can finish the vase. I understand now. Of course I won't touch it, for my heart swells with gratitude for a woman so selfless and kind, each time I gaze upon the beauty and grace of the woman I see within the lines of the vase.


Gertrudism 13: "What we spend, we lose. What we keep does us little good. What we give away will be ours forever.”