The Journey End?

I have been thinking a lot about some of the paths my life has traveled, with recent events my mind is reminded of time when I felt a major decision was life or death in the making. I had received my mission call to serve in Osaka, Japan for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and on the same day received a letter from The headquarters of the Kanas City Royal Baseball Team asking me to report to spring training in Florida. As I spoke with my mother concerning the choice I faced, she at once told me to do what would make me happy, but then she told me what would become a Gertrudism of personal value to me, "Sometimes the journey is more important than the journey's end." Well, as an 18-year old boy, I could neither understand the depth or berth of experience that my mother must have been speaking from.

I had asked my mother about my Grandfather Jencks. She told me of several things which I remember. Again, because of some new perspective in my life, some of my Grandfather's choices have new meaning, as do the way my mother dealt with him until the day he died. I don't know how well I would have received a man whom abandoned me and my sister after my mother had died, yet mother welcomed Grandfather to her home, and cared for and loved him in his greatest hour of need. In fact, I never heard mother speak evil or harshly about him. I was told he had a quick sense of humor and easy smile, he was intensely loyal, which doesn't seem to match his actions or was the choice to leave the only one that kept him in this world for awhile longer? I know that Eaton Jencks had a journey that was his own and in the end had family whom loved and still think of him. I currently am the only brother that has his haircut, my younger brother is getting there but I've had it since I was 21. I also have a strong affinity to cigar smoke, that somehow reminds me of a man I have no memories of. I would dare not assume to guess what my grandfather might have been going through after the woman he loved died, yet the path he chose changed my mother's life forever.  I know now somewhat of the meaning of the Gertrudism, for my journey is far from over yet, just in the past several months I have learned a great deal about my own personal limits, stress and self confidence.  As I have struggled mightily with feelings of worth and questioned the reasons why certain things have happened at this time in my life, I have realized that this is a universal occurrence in everyone's sojourn while here on earth. No one escapes the questions of: Why we are here on earth? Why do things happen to us in a certain way? Is it my fault? Is it chance? Is it God's plan? Is there even a God?  What they place on our head stone or how we are remembered at the end of our life is not what's important, nor is it the goal. I know that we believe that we will be together again, but for now we have this life and this time to influence, mark, and travel our path.  I love my mother and will honor her memory until my last breath, leave my mouth yet the time, love and lessons she taught along the journey's path are all that matter...they are what I rely on now as mile markers in my own journey with those I love and care for. The question is: Are those that accompany me on this journey enjoying their time or regretting a path that placed them along side me at this time? This is a sobering question to ask and answer truthfully, yet if we simply applied this as "the golden rule" how clear will be our motives be and pure the love we offer? My mother's love was offered to all travelers whom came in contact with her, it was how she remained happy and grateful all her days.

Mom knew that each of her children would have their own journeys to travel. Each would choose paths of their own. My early choice to serve a mission was a path I chose out of loyalty to my mother and a desire to serve as my brothers and sister had before. Looking back, if I had taken my mother's advice and made my decision simply on what made me happy, spring would have found me in Florida. How grateful I am that Grandpa Jencks must have passed on some of that loyalty, for without it my journey's path would have been considerably different. Mom's extraordinary understanding of the fact the each of us will be judged righteously and in the end find a place where we will be happy, enabled her to teach us that the real lessons were to be learned as we traveled, and not at journey's end. That we could and should find joy along the way and in the many different adventures life puts in our paths. As I have mentioned many times, mom found joy in many things and many choices in her life. As I have personally struggled with feelings of despair lately, I have tried to remember my mother depressed or discouraged and the only time this comes to mind is late in her life as her health declined and she was unable to do some of the things she enjoyed doing. However, even that was short lived as she simply and courageously chose to be happy. Oh how I wished she were here to help me understand this process now and oh how I miss her! I would not presume to say that there are not medical or mental issues that cause great despair and depression. I know many people whom suffer greatly with all manner of challenges, and many who have every right to say" life is not fair" or "Why me, God?" who choose each day, though what must be difficult and hard, to find joy in the small thing in life. They put on a smile  and one foot in front of the other, and somehow and somewhere, they find hope that tomorrow will be better. How amazing they are. We cannot often change our lot in life, but we can always change the attitude with which we live it. I have always loved this quote, I just wished I could live it better.

The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination. ~Marian Zimmer Bradley

So with the new paths that I must now travel, I am committed to choose hope and happiness as my companion. I will not inflect the torment of the ungrateful, selfish and brooding man on those I love as I remember more clearly and more often how much I am loved and how greatly I have been blessed by those who have chosen to walk along my path for a season.

Gertrudism #15   " Sometimes the journey is more important than the journey's end. "

The Results

I start this to give an update on my results of the biopsy of my prostate that occurred last week. The actual procedure was intense, yet not unlike a root canal, just I was opening wide in a different kind of way. The aftermath was another story as the days lingered on with pain and bleeding and as my body battled infection and trauma. My dear friends had invited Shauna and myself to St. George again for golf, food and fun. There I was doing what I could to be pleasant, happy and somewhat normal. Inside I was hoping I would soon wake and the dream would end, fears would calm and this great desire to run as far and fast away from everything and everyone would stop haunting my thoughts.
But here I stood looking at the beautiful green grass and the red rock back drop of the first hole knowing I was surrounded by people who cared and loved me, knowing my wife waited for my return. The sunshine and activity numbed some of the madness in my mind, dinner with my wife and friends, exhaustion and the toll of the procedure and the infection allowed me to sleep. The next day we were on another beautiful course and the symptoms were still more painful than I thought normal so I called the doctor on call which some how was my doctor. There in the middle of a round of golf I found out both good and bad news which on confirmed on Tuesday as Shauna an I met with her.

One of the core samples has cancer, much smaller than she was excepting a gleason score of 3 x3 (range1-10) with acute porosities which is treated with antibiotics for the next 4 week. I would love to ignore the small growth, but that's not possible so I am on "Active Watch" for 3 months, then new blood tests sometime in the next 6 months. Depending on the test results, another biopsy, and after that the cancer will need to be dealt with.

So it hasn't changed yet how I feel: I am still scared, but it's not of what you might think; not of death or even pain. It's of letting the people I love down. It's of failing to be gentle, kind, and loving to those that mean the most to me. A fear that courage is not found within me to face each day with a smile, that anger might better my control or I simply let despair encompass what light there is. These are as honest as emotions as I can express. The story of Scrooge was never about him losing his life, it was always about him losing his humanity. That's what the Ghost of Christmas Future would take and that is certainly what I fear.

I  watched as my mother suffered for many years as her body's functions and ability to sustain life slowly faded away. Mom however always seemed to find the courage to smile, laugh, and love through it all. Some of my most confidential and meaningful conversations occurred as mom lay in her bed, me as an adult, snuggled next to her listening to her struggle to pull air into her lungs. Was she ever too tired? Ever cross? Ever unwilling to give me her "last widow's mite?" Not once . Yet how quickly I forget and let selfish stupid things get in the way of giving comfort when needed, advice when requested, and encouragement that all of us require. So again mom will teach, though I would rather not learn this way, I will do what I can to remember how she lived and loved to the very end of her days.

My beautiful sister, Lynne, also suffered a similar fate and though I only was able to visit a few times, I was able to communicate in other forms. Her humor, intelligence, and grace allow a remarkable insight into her life; they way she love, what she believed, and how she dealt with trials. She was truly amazing and her smile provides comfort even to this day, as I remember how it lit up her face. She also gave comfort to the end of her days and even past as she sang at her own funeral, more a duet for me...but that's another, more sacred story.

A couple of week ago as my brother David was doing his best to distract my frazzled mind with a game of golf on a cool Saturday morning, the subject of Kim came up as we talked of her journey and some of the incredible decisions she was faced with making. As I explained how uncomfortable I was with the responsibility of dealing with the concern being offered in my behalf, he stopped me and told me, "That the one of the greatest gifts Kim gave to many people in their ward and family was to allow them the opportunity to participate in her death."  I have thought of that often since, these amazing women each independent, strong, and capable allowed those whom they loved to assist, care and enjoy what precious time was available. What remarkable examples...hence the fear of failing at such a small bump in the road.

Yet here I am, hoping that memories burn bright, that companionship of loved ones stays close and that somehow courage, faith and fortitude strengthen. As I was told today " knowing you're human is half the battle in keeping your humanity"

No Gertrudism today, doesn't feel right...

but I like these:

“Life itself is simple...it's just not easy.”
― Steve Maraboli,    
“To live greatly, we must develop the capacity to face trouble with courage, disappointment with cheerfulness, and triumph with humility.”
― Thomas S. Monson


    

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.”  

Magic, Musing, and Memories

   So as I start this blog entry I would like to share some unexpected benefits that has come from this- "so that those that have Gertrude running through their viens can realize the impact they can have on the one's they love-" project.

    First, I now have a much better understanding of how Christianity's holy writ and sacred tombs from all religions have been held dear by those who have found peace and solace from within their pages. Those who have felt love and joy and have felt sadness and grief through the verses of poets, those who have been uplifted and inspired by both composed word and tune. It is through the imaginations of those who have told stories of lore, fables, and fairy tales that minds have traveled with dragons, witnessed knights saving damsels in distress, searched for treasure, and battled giants throughout the ages. Now seems an appropriate time to say this, "In all kidding, lies truth," as mom used to say. It's my belief that in all of our stories, legends, lore, and fairy tales that truth and real life must exist. Magic must be real in some sense, just as we believe that Holy Writ is correct as far as it is correctly translated. The Navajo people have no written language, yet their stories and legends are known throughout their people. It would be impossible to tell them that they didn't see what they believed within the wind, the sand that swirled in the canyons, what they saw in the clouds, or what they knew in their hearts because of what their grandparent's grandparents had told them from generation to generation. This experience of being able to write, talk, and discuss the occurrences of my childhood, especially concerning the emotions associated with my mother, has made me realize that who I am, at my very core, is just a compilation of all those moments. I am what my mother taught me and helped me learn. We are after all, the sum total of all our experiences.

     All of my brothers and sisters are extremely talented and gifted. I have had the wonderful experience of getting to hear from several of them since I have started this project (nice fringe benefit). I am by far the least qualified to be doing this. I know nothing about blogs, am an atrocious speller, and punctuation is something you get when you're sick (at least in my mind anyway), but luckily I have wonderful children and a wife who are willing to help me edit my thoughts, so my readers don't have to struggle quite so much. One thing I have always excelled at, over my brothers and sisters, is my ego. Even at the extent of jumping off the highest couch and landing squarely on my rear end onto the hard floor, just so I could capture the attention of the room. This project, though not on purpose, has given me an opportunity to receive lots of well wishes from people I have not heard from for many, many years. Which, at this current time, was something that buoyed up my soul and lightened my days.

     As with all things we hold dear, it is because of the emotions they evoke. There is no other reason we would hold them dear. If we find value in anything, it is because it brings out emotion in us. Just as the above referenced materials do for millions of people around the world. When I first started this, I had the idea that I didn't really care if it impacted anyone but me, but just as with many other authors, it has now become very significant to me that others recognize why this means so much to me. I want others to feel the emotion and understand why I am putting the effort into sharing these memories at all, I want others to get a sense for how much my mother meant to me and how much she impacted my life. Over the last two months, I have found that I spent a great deal of time, thought, and emotional energy in thinking about this process. As you know, my brain is far from normal. It's a little like two halves, with one half constantly spinning, kind of like a whirling dervish. I found little in my life that allows my brain to shut down and focus. I have tried numerous medications, but feeling like " the walking dead" was not an option for me. Therefore, I have simply found creative ways to keep half of my brain occupied, while the other tries to keep me on task. This exercise has allowed me a respite and some relief, because it requires and allows a complete concentration and focus on the emotion of the past.

     My mind is able to focus as I remember things like going through my father's second dresser drawer and seeing the pale yellow, green, and blue dress shirts with the white dry cleaning label wrapped around them. I remember searching through my mother's jewelry box and looking at the copper stone rings within. The heat from Olin Sheriff forges (He would cast Silver Ingots). The scent of pine and wood as pine nuts roasted in the oven, come back to me clearly. The smell of wet cement that occurred every spring in my basement bedroom. As I came home one day from Kindergarten, being dropped off by Ruby Brown, I could smell the coppery, sulfur smell of blood. As I walked into the house, mother was not in her usual spot, but I could hear her calling my name from the bathroom. I went to her, where she was in the bathtub, covered in blood. She told me to run and get Ruby before she left. I watched as Ruby washed her off, cleaned her up, and helped her to her bed. Then she told me to go lay by her. My mother crying as I lay by her side brought tears then and now. When I got up, Ruby had cleaned the bathtub, taken the bloodied garments in a plastic bag, and departed. I didn't know it then, but my mother had miscarried. Not long after, she would become pregnant again. She tells the story of going to the doctor and telling him she was pregnant. The doctor replied, "You're not pregnant. You're just going through the change." Mom replied, "I've been pregnant enough to know that I'm pregnant, so just give me the test. If I'm not pregnant I'll be pay for the test, but if I am pregnant you can pay for it." She regretted not betting him the cost of the whole pregnancy. Robert, my little brother, was the result. She said Robert was sent to protect and help her, and that the only reason that Robert came to her was because she was willing and someone else simply wasn't ready. Robert ended up being a special miracle to my mother and father. I will always be grateful for Robert's presence during my parents' later years, He was gentle and kind then and has continued to be, he has more of my mother's wonderful traits than most.  

Gertrudism #12 " In all kidding, lies truth"

Some of Mom's Art Work

A Smelly Lesson

   As I start this memory I need to clarify a thing or two. My Mother was a great believer  and follower of Jesus Christ and a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I state this as so no one might misconstrue my lack of straight forwardness in previous blog entries. The things spiritual and scared of nature I hold dear and won't be discussed here, they are held elsewhere.  However, not including my Mother's faith or the women that impacted my life so much would be like talking about the Holy Land and not mentions the Jews, or Italy and the Roman Catholic church. They are synonymous with each other and have effected the outcome and lives of all it's inhabitants.

   My Mother's firm belief in the principal of forgiveness was at her very core. It was a driving factor in the way she lived her life, acted towards others and approached trials and heart ache. I witnessed this so many times in my own life as I would do stupid things and she would simple say "We can't go back and change it, so why worry about it, let's figure out how to fix it." If I learned not to carry a grudge it was because of her, and sayings like this. It doesn't mean you forget...it means you get to control the emotions you remember it with. (a very powerful lesson I was taught) Mom had figured out that time and experience was not reversible, most of us still think in some way that it is and that we can change the past by what we do in the future. Sorry to tell you this, but it doesn't work that way. The past is the past, set in stone, unchangeable, inerasable and unforgettable. We can change our lives so as not to do the same thing. We can do what we can to repair any damage or effect and time will ease the intensity of the memory. Mother believed that only Christ has the power and authority to assist us in all three, but that we are still required to ask, work and apply its principles to be successful. She said "The hardest part of forgiveness will always be the part of forgiving oneself." How true that is.

   As I sit here in my cozy little den on a cool November day, if I let my mind drift back 40 years, I can still smell the acrid smell of Skunk and feel the burn on the right side of my face and the blindness in my right eye slowly creep over the lens... I am 12 years old it is a hot August day. I have been sent to get the irrigation water for the peach trees, I need to walk the ditch from our neighbors fence along the back of the property, down the hill where I can gate the ditch so the water will come out in small streams to go down each of the peach tree furrows. I carry with me a single shot 410 shotgun, and a round nose shovel. Since I am irrigating, I am in boots, levis and a t-shirt. I open the first gate that allows the water to travel down our ditch. As I walk along the path following the water to assure that the ditch is clear of debris, I step around a large bush and on to a large skunk...it opens both spray sacks full at me as I turn and lower my shotgun, the blast at less than two feet disintegrated the animal but not before the green plume had covered my right side with spray and the mist engulf the rest of me. I couldn't breath and crawled several feet to clean air. My skin was on fire, my right eye swollen shut already, my mouth thick with putrid vile stench that coated my tongue, my nostril's screamed from the overload of odor and my head felt as if it might explode. Leaving the gun I crawled to my feet and staggered down the hill, somehow finding my voice calling one word "Mom, Mom, Mom" still don't know how she heard but without hesitation she grabbed me to keep me from falling even though I must have smelled overpowering. As she laid me on the concrete surface of the basketball court above our home, I felt a cool damp cloth over my head and realized it was mom's mumu...she had dampen it in the sprinkler and know she was the one running around in her underwear (Long Garments) . When she returned, she told me to close my eyes and hold my breath for a moment, as I did the smell of vinegar fill the air, breathe she said, ok hold again the white dust everywhere (baking soda) caked my body, then came the unmistakable pop of a canning lid. What had she opened? I was soon rewarded with the answer as tomato juice began to pour over me...and I began to vomit uncontrollability from the skunk spray and smell of vinegar and tomatoes . I hated tomatoes. Even though it was August and hot I shivered on the cement. My Mother inspected my face and eye, she was very worried I might lose sight in my right eye. I had taken a direct blast from the skunk to the face and was very lucky. After awhile the liquid had dried and I had calmed down Mother told me to return to the stream remove all my clothes place them in the stream, place a rock on top of them, retrieve the shotgun and come back down where she would be ready to help me. I did as I was told, walking naked from the stream to the backyard in the day was a new experience since puberty had come, still I wasn't shy maybe just a little more self conscious (and yes it is still my favorite attire). Mom had laid out an old sheet where I laid down and received another round of vinegar, baking soda and tomato juice. Lucky there was nothing left in my stomach to vomit. Once dry I was rinsed by the garden hose and sniffed...nope still stunk like a skunk uuuugh. through the routine again and I still smelled. Then she realized the problem as I dried the next time I found the hair trimmers hooked to and extension cord, off came all my hair, yes ALL my hair truly the first time I would be embarrassed (Yes pun intended) in front of my mother.
The smell was finally gone.

    The clothes including my mothers mumu never lost the smell and had to be discarded. Not everything or everyone can or chooses to be saved. Mom taught me that all we can do is offer what we have, sometimes all we have and even then its not enough. I lost my clothes and my mother lost her mumu but it could have been so much worse. I was fortunate not to loose my eye sight and that is what I remember, not how painful the following weeks were for my eye, the fact that food tasted wrong for a month and nothing smelled right for months until all the nose hairs had replaced themselves. I also remember how immediately  Mother came rushing to my side. She knew what the danger and cost would be, yet there she was to aide and comfort me. Why? Well she believe in Christ and believe that this is how repentance and forgiveness are. Immediate upon asking, gentle, caring and comforting through the process, supportive and healing till finished.

   
   You may believe what you may and I will love you regardless, for I am simply telling you what my Mother believed and lived so you might know and understand her and her actions. We each have our own choices and roads to follow, if you choose to remember Gertrude Madsen, remember her with a smile on her face, open arms, a twinkle in her eye and a knowledge that she believed that every soul was worth her best effort, what love she could give and the freedom to find joy in the path they had chosen.    




Gertrudism #11 "There is no forgiveness without love, there is no love without forgiveness"

   

                  
  

Men, Money and a Wilson A-2000

     So as you can imagine, raising a large family on a small farm in Centerville, Utah on a salesman's salary must have been a challenge for my mother. I have tried very hard to remember any significant conversations about money, or the lack of money, with my mother yet I can't recall any. I can only assume that it was due to my lack of interest. Sex, politics, faith, her artistry and imagination all were subjects that engaged and fascinated me. If I had asked, I am sure she would have freely spoken about the subject, but money wasn't to become important to me for several years to come.

   Dad worked for Graybar Electric for 35 + years and must have been good at his job, though I never knew it until he retired and packed his desk where there were two full boxes of awards for sales contests and company achievements. He was also a master craftsman, self taught, in many fields but by heredity in the art of wood working. I remember going through the open carry boxes of planes, mallets, chisels, hand drills and scrapers, most labeled with the name "Orsen" his father.  I never heard from my father a single story about either his father or mother, at least not one I remember...I find that discomforting and sad and most likely my fault for not asking when we were together.  I am hoping that this effort will ensure that my children never feel that same discomfort.

 I love this quote:

"We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies." ~Shirley Abbott

  There were many outstanding men in my life, yet I know very little about them: Stan Smoot was one of my young influences and gave me my first baseball glove when I started little league. He had played minor league baseball, which I thought was very cool. He was in real estate and politics; he ran for governor of the state of Utah when I was a youth. Horton Hess was a retired mailman my whole life and an avid scouter. I remember he sat me down in his prestine living room when I was 11 or so to show me his Silver Beaver Award from the Boy Scouts.  "Eric," he said, "when you have one of these then you know you given back to those that worried, sweat, and helped you get to eagle." I didn't have a clue what he was talking about but it was a real cool medal so I told him I would get one. He cackled and laughed this big belly laugh through his large handle bar moustache, "I Have no doubt you will." I received my Silver Beaver Award in 2003 and dedicated it to him. Ken Duncan owned Duncan Lighting. He was rich and was my introduction to golf...I loved Ken, he always made an effort to make contact with me and make me feel special. I think he did it as much for my mom as for me, Ken and Genève were our next door neighbors to the north. If there was ever a need, mom sent me there. There were many more men whom I watched and influenced my life, and yes, most for good but some left some painful dents, scratches, and damage. Even with someone like my mother guiding me through the repair process, there are times when the light reflects just right off the repaired surfaces where I still seem to see the residual effects of the damage. 

    A word of Caution - Most men go through life with blinders on, only focusing on the task at hand. There will always be young man's watchful gaze on the action you pursue. Please take the time to at least think about your action if you're not willing to acknowledge their existence.    

   Mom's ability to understand the dynamic relationships between a young boy- young man and the men in his life was such a stabilizing factor in my life and in the life of my best friend, Scott Fugate. As we as youngmen tried to figure out what was the right and wrong way of acting, how to speak, how to think...mom taught us both a great deal that has served us well with many of the challenges in ours lives. Mom and I had many discussions about how to be thoughtful, kind, and respectful. Mom would often say, " It takes no time, effort, or money to say, 'I Love you, Thank You, and Please', but will be worth everything in your relationships in life". Gertrudism #1 really was a key to who mom was, she was always grateful...a lesson I am still trying to learn as well.

    When I was 15, baseball had officially become my love and obsession. Even though I had discovered girls, I had found something I was very good at. I could think as quick as I wanted (without being required to show my work, even though I could always come up with the right answers in math class), didn't have to spell, sit still, or read anything except body language, which I was good at, and it wasn't work. I studied the game, its players, the equipment and how the game was played. Everything was achievable for me, the uniforms, socks, hats etc. except one thing. The only piece I was missing was the best glove in the game, a Wilson A-2000. At the time it was $90, which would amount to about $400 today (which is what some baseball gloves can cost today). It was not reachable for me or my family, but I asked my mom for Christmas, birthday, and every present occasion for the next decade if this could be my gift. Most parents have heard this logic and plea. I will never know what my mom sacrificed, or if dad was involved, but there on Christmas morning was my glove. It  never left my side for the next year as I conditioned, and trained the leather to close automatically. I was lucky that my basement bedroom had no windows and a cement wall, as I spent most of the winter bouncing a baseball from the wall to my glove. The glove followed me through high school, summer, college baseball careers, and accompanied me to Japan to play each P-day to the oohs and ahhs of the Japanese players.  Can a simple thing like a baseball glove make such a difference in a man's life?  The answer is NO. It's not the glove, it's knowing what it represents. Mom had figured out how important this glove was to me, even if she couldn't fathom spending that amount of money on a thing and even if she couldn't understand the hold baseball had on me, she knew it mattered to me. If it mattered to me, it mattered to her, and that's all that was important. One of the hardest of mom's lessons for me to learn was to stop worrying about what matters to me and start worrying about what is important to others.

   I am always grateful for people that have been placed in my life. I have come to realize that happiness is caused by events in our lives, satisfaction is the result of remembering those event that went well or were pleasant, but joy; real joy comes from our relationships with those people placed in our path while we journey here on earth and our faith in the god we choose to believe in. My mother knew joy. She express it in so many ways. Song, cooking, art, service, compassion but most of all she simple shared the love her faith gave her in great abundance.

   May this week of Thanksgiving find your heart full of expression that you may open your mouths to all those you love...let there be no doubt nor let the words stay silent " I love you and Thank You " can bring joy that can sustain a life time.  


Gertrudism #10  "Challenge and change always come bearing gifts."

            

Faith, Mom and Me

    As I look back on so many of the amazing women in my life I have come to realize that they all had several things in common, but the most striking similarity was their faith. A faith that allowed them to live as they believed.  All of these women held many leadership callings in the church. My mother was a relief society president several times. Ruby Brown also served in that capacity. Bonnie Tanner and Estella Hess held various callings and Maryeleen Smoot served in the highest calling a women can serve as the General Relief Society President, yet not one of these women let their callings define them. They would have been just as extraordinary, kind and charitable with or without their callings. I know this because I witnessed this over and over again as these women cared for those around them without duty or requirement simply because that's who they were.

    Mom taught me that the church was just a vehicle to help us learn, but the gospel was perfect and worthy of our effort. She lived this way her whole life, always caring for those in need even when she might be in greater need herself, giving what she might "even to the last widow's mite" if it would ease someone's pain, calm a troubled heart or lighten the load of the weary.

   I was 14 and had just gotten home from school. It was Fall because darkness had already started to set. When I started down the stairs to chang to do my chores,  mom had ready a plate of food, a blanket and an old coat from the downstairs coal room sitting of the ledge of the kitchen stairs. I eyed the mysterious package. Mom said, "Go change and I will explain." When I came back up mom told me that a hobo had stopped at the farm and since dad was traveling and tonight was especially cold she said he could stay in the hay loft. He wasn't dressed well so I was to give him the coat and hat and see if I could find some of my old gloves, take the food and blanket to him and go do my chores. I met him in the hay loft and he told me his name was Stan Upjohn and he was from Chicago. He had been traveling around the country for several years and was headed to California because it was warmer there to sleep outside at night during the winter months. I told him he could have the clothes and where fresh water was. He watched as I milked the cow and I asked he wanted some. He gulped a big glass of warm milk straight from the pale that I had just finished filling. Yuck! I didn't like warm milk even on the coldest days except when it went down my rubber boots, now that felt heavenly! He thanked me for the food and disappeared behind the hay bales. The next morning when I went to milk the cow, I quietly searched for Stan. There neatly folded was the blanket. On top was the cleaned plate and in the center was a six inch braided twine rope and a large glass marble of the bluest color. I didn't think much of this at the time, but now the gesture was certainly gratitude personified.

   Mom taught me that all people have faith, it just varies in what. The worst thing I could ever do is discount, demean or ridicule someone else for the faith they have. It saddens me to see family, friends, church and society in general be so closed minded and arrogant that they would take away the simple form of freedom given to all, to believe and have faith in what and whom they wish. I never understood how anyone who professes to believe in Christ could ever harm, or be critical of another's belief or choices. Like saying "I believe in gravity" and then doing the opposite by jumping off a building. The "do unto others"  thing, but only when it's convenient or you agree with them, of course, otherwise it doesn't apply, just like gravity doesn't apply each time you leave the earth's surface right?

   On one of our pilgrimages to the Geological Library building in Downtown Salt Lake City, Utah, was myself (8 and newly baptized) mom and yep, you know it, Ruby Brown.

  Ruby had on her over-powering flowery perfume. I don't remember my mother's perfume which is curious to me because I have so many wonderful and strong olfactory sense memories. The smell of bacon grease as my dad was cooking the only thing he would cook, fried eggs you didn't have to flip, hash browns out of day old baked potatoes and thick cut bacon. The smell of fresh cut alfalfa in July. I would go lay between the rows and let the smell wash over me as the white puffy clouds would drift over head and I would dream of thing that would make me smile. The unmistaken smell of cherry wood as you sat lofted in a tree picking cherries. The musk of the wood's sap combined with the cherry juice would leave a district smell on your hands for days. The acrid and suffocating smell of the chicken coop (a mixture of feathers, dust, and powdered chicken feces would permeate every pore. Your eyes would water and coughing was assured).  I remember the smell my mother had, her hair, her breath, her clothes, yet if she wore perfume, and I know she did, it doesn't come to mind. 

   We would park at the ZCMI center during the summer months so mom and Ruby could walk though the gardens of Temple Square and I think give me time to get a bit of energy out before entering the Library. As we walked we came across three Muslim women dressed in Hijab. I had never seen this and said so in not so quite a voice (which to this day is still an issue). The women raised their heads, but made no direct eye contact. Mom knew they heard this, so, in typical Gertrude fashion she walked over and politely asked of one of these women that her son was wondering what the significance of her dress was and that she didn't know, and would she mind telling him? Two of the women moved back and hid their faces more, but one drew me closer and explained that it was a symbol of modesty, purity and represented the veil between men and God and it represented their faith. My mother thanked her as did I. I have thought of her smile from time to time, it was radiant and bright. It is a shame that we let the prejudice and the pride of religion get in the way of living the gospel and that it causes us not to act simply as human beings that care for each other.   

  If mom had prejudice, I never witnessed it or saw it. I know I never heard her speak about another person's faith poorly, even when someone of our own faith was struggling, including myself. She offered nothing but compassion, love and support. It is what my children know, that my arms are always open. They are always welcome at home and they will always be loved. That comes straight from what mom taught, engrained and practiced.


Mom loved this and believed it:

Gertrudism #9  " Charity Never Faileth "

Mom and I painted this on 144 thimbles for a Relief Society  dinner

Intimate Conversations

      I grew up on a farm with horses, cows, pigs, chickens, lambs, dogs, cat, rabbits, fields with pheasants, quail and grouse. We had several large beehives, orchards of cherries, peaches, apricots, three plums, several apple trees. There were rows of grapes, acres of hay and pasture and large garden areas, both vegetable and flower. If you throw into the mix a family with nine kids, the circle and cycle of life becomes an everyday kind of thing. I remember many dinner conversations about the veterinarian coming to either help an animal get pregnant or deliver, and where the hives would need to be moved to  best suit the fields and trees. Well, having been born with an innate curiosity that was encouraged and honed by my mother's challenge to observe life, more than once with a glove larger than me was I able to feel a calf inside a cow with the help of the vet whom was checking to see if it was coming out breech or not, or witness the beauty of birth in all it varied forms both animal, insect, and plant.

     One of my clearest memories of this is the bee keeper, Ben. With my mother by my side, he had just smoked the main hive in the cherry trees and pulled the center tray where the queen ruled. She was magnificent, but was also surrounded by her minions, thousands of small pouches ready to burst into new honey bees. Ben let me touch them softly so I could feel the vibration of the hive as it hummed. It was slightly sticky when I removed me fingers. He told me that it would be sweet if I wanted to taste it, it was far sweeter than the honey they produced, which to this day I have always thought as curious. Mom also touched the hive and a big smile crossed her face, normally not much of a bug person, but as I said, this was amazing to experience.

    So creation was everywhere in my life I just didn't know what to call it...sex, that what's I learned it was called listening to my brothers and sisters, and their husbands and wives as they would talk with mom and think that I wasn't paying attention, which most of the time they were right. Then came 5th grade and Miss Kartchner, slender, well-built ,long hair, beautiful smile with playful eyes (oh and did I mention she wore blouses that showed cleavage?) Well I was gravely disappointed when I wasn't assigned to her class, how much so I can't even remember my own teacher's name...but this is why. Several of my friends were in Miss K's class so I spent as much time as I could in her class. Then came the secret meeting only for girls..5th grade maturation. That drove me nuts. I didn't know what it was and I wasn't invited, that was not acceptable on any account. So I figured it out. I knew there was a break when school let out and the meeting started and that after the meeting they would go to the lunch room for cookies and punch...again very unfair, so I simply slid into the class under Miss K's desk, pulled the chair tight, I knew she seldom sat at her desk and waited.

     Everyone filed in. 45-mins. later, after really learning nothing much new (except how long I could endure the pain of being cramped in one position for that long.) and wishing there was a hole in the front of the desk so I could see the slides, they left for their treats. I waited a while longer and left the class, got my bag and started to leave the school. Just about at the end of the hallway, 10 or so feet from the exit, was Miss K. She stopped me and asked why I was here so late. Of course I lied about forgetting something and with a very large smile on her face she said, "Well I hope it was worth missing your bus for, can you get home okay? "  I gulped and said I could, that I was headed to a friends and that I would see her tomorrow...she again stopped me and said, "No you won't." I thought, "Oh no, I'm caught"...but again with that disarming smile she said, "It's Friday. See you Monday," and off she went.

      Of course when I walked in the door an hour and a half late (lucky for me Rulon Ford had seen me walking and given me a ride part way) mom asked where I had been...now this was not unusual for me to wander in late, I could very often get lost in an adventure or simply stop by a great spot to tell myself a story...and normally I would just tell her that because she always knew. I learned that very young, mom always knew, sometimes she would call you on your lie, other times she wouldn't but she always knew. So out with the story of how I hid to hear about women starting their cycle for the first time. My mother explained that most girls and even some women would be uncomfortable speaking of such a thing around men and that it was wrong of me to assume I had a right to know. She started right then and there to teach me that a woman's body was hers and hers alone to give, that the gift shared in human sexuality is beautiful, healing and natural. She asked if I had any other questions about what I had heard when I told her I had been reading the inserts in my sisters' tampax boxes she laughed and hugged me and told me that we would probably be having many more conversation about human sexuality.

     Sure enough over the years, mom and I had many intimate conversations about sex. The strongest advice came shortly after Shauna and I were married. Mom and I were china painting. Mom was discussing someone we knew so she put her brush down. "Eric," she said, "I have come to realize that sex in a relationship is one of the strongest motivators in determining the satisfaction, happiness and health of any relationship. Faith, children and society might keep you married, but sex will keep you in love. That is, sex given; never bound by guilt or duty or payment just given freely to each other. It soothes, heals, encourages, buoys up and strengthens." I was a newlywed, so of course I couldn't have agreed more and still do....

This Gertrudism was one of two pieces of advice my mom gave me when I married Shauna, she didn't use it as often as the others.

Gertrudism #8 "Never use sex as a bargaining tool"     

Seven of the nine of us in the mid seventies in the Rock House in Centerville Utah. Yes that is me in the back next to Lynne with hair, proof positive it did exist

     

The Game

      There I was, at ten years old, crouched down listening, in my hand a perfect round flat stone. I am ready to rise and throw at just the right time....The Smoot home was across the street and down several houses to the south of our home on Main Street. The ground sloped away from the road, so when the home was built and the ground leveled a small three-foot retaining wall was needed at the roadside. Scott Smoot was one of my childhood friends, as were his brothers. Their home was larger than ours and housed their seven children (all names started with "S" ) nicely. Stan was a business man, politician, and local leader. Maryellen was one of the most remarkable ladies I would ever know. Even though I would invade her home at all hours day and night and infect her sons with my disorder for mischief (All the Smoot Boys are wonderful) Maryellen would feed me , clothe me (she wouldn't let me run around in just underwear even though I protested) and often house me. She taught me opera and classical music. She would later become the General Relief Society President of the Church, but to me she was another strong, wonderful influence for good in the life of a boy.

        Back to the Stone: I was and continue to be very good at thinking up games. I can make a game or competition out of any event or mundane active. One quick example, then back to the rock. As my children and I wait in line for rides at amusement parks, my kids know the game is afoot when they see a penny in my hand...the object to get it into a stranger's pocket or purse without their knowledge. Let's say there are a lot of people who found coins where they least except to find them...my kids giggle and laugh at their father, and most of the time several other people (strangers ) join in the game. It makes the lines go by very quickly. The game that day involved several bottles and cans set- up across the street, at the end of Horton Hess' property and the beginning of Olin Sheriff's driveway. As cars would come along Main, generally at speeds of 40 to 50 mile per hour, we would pop up from the wall, throw a stone under the car, skipping it to hit the can or bottle. Simple right? WRONG! This became very hard to do. Often the stone would skip up into the under carriage of the cars. Loud clanks and clangs of noise would echo as the car motored down the road seldom stopping. Rural traffic was used to road debris and things bumping the bottoms of their cars.

     The game was only to 25 points. One point for getting across the road under the car, one for hitting a target, double if by chance two cars were passing.  It was my turn and there was the unmistakeable sound of the high pitch and speed of a VW Beetle pop, pop, pop engine coming down the road. My hand-eye coordination was very good and my arm strong (both would get me to start at third base in college and an invite the spring training camp for a professional baseball team). I could see the stone skipping, finding the old coke bottle and shattering it. I stood and threw, I heard the sound of glass explode...then the sound of  rubber screeching, as brakes were roughly applied. The little VW came to a shaky stop when the driver's side window was shattered with my stone.

     Well one of the other things I did well in my baseball career was steal bases and that didn't fail me now...I ran till I couldn't breathe. Then I just wandered for an hour or so till I thought It was safe to go home. As I approached home my spirits lifted because there in the drive was Dick and Ruby Brown's car. My father's car was also home, which meant card night...phew. When I walked into the house, sure enough a game of hearts was being played, but when my mother looked up at me there was not the usual pleasant expression on her face. She told me a gentlemen had stopped by that had a window busted out of his car, and that he was an off-duty county sheriff. Well, I had learned a new word on the playground at school and I wasn't sure I knew what it meant except you said it when you were in trouble, at least I thought...ooops. I simply and elegantly said,  "oh F***."  Yes, there aren't many other letters that go in there. Silence...lots of Silence. Poor Dick, one of the most gentle men that ever walked this earth, was actually blushing. Ruby was coughing, grasping for her water, dad had this half-smirk, half-mad face, and mom simply put her cards down and walked me down the long, narrow hall to the back bedroom to talk.

     She asked where I had heard that word and if I knew the meaning. As you know, I could never keep anything from her so I told her what I knew. She explained how hurtful and damaging words like that can be. Then we were done... I was baffled and thought, "How can she not be mad at me?" She understood where I was in both my understanding of life and language. What I saw next I didn't like, for my mother's countenance seemed to change as we approached the subject of what happened with the car. As we talked, I began to realize that what I was seeing was disappointment. I knew that was not something I wished to ever cause her on purpose again. It wasn't the act of breaking the window, because accidents and poor choices happen everyday, but it's how we account for them that matters. That is what she was trying to teach me. See wasn't mad I broke the window, she was sad that I had ran away. 

     I saw that expression on my mother's face a couple more times in my life, due to my own lack of courage or stupidity, but fortunately I never let it go very long before making it right with mom. The real lesson of compassion and selfless love came a couple days later. The man returned with the estimate to repair the window. I met him and told him of the game I had been playing, apologized, and worked out a payment plan. What I didn't know was that the first night he came to the house my mother had told him it would go as such, with one other exception. For the next month, on each Wednesday after school for two hours, and Saturday for 4 hours, I was his farm hand to do whatever needed doing at his Farmington home. I was shocked! The man said, "well I'm not sure what a 10- year old boy can do." My mother agreed and simply said, "Then I will come and work also." We each put 24 hrs of labor into his garden. His wife was as mad as I have ever seen a woman be upset at a man...but by the end she and my mother were good friends. She often helped us in her garden and they both attended my my mother's funeral... 

Gertudism #7  " God's greatest gift to his children is agency, God's greatest curse to a parent is giving his children agency."

Imagination, Fear, and the Utter Disregard for Logic

     I lay in cocoon pose elevated above the ground in a silver silk parachute, swinging effortlessly from side to side, listening to the soothing music, smelling the rich aromatic smells of sandalwood, sage, lavender, and ginger. Instead of staying in the moment, as the yoga instructor is encouraging us to do, my mind wonders to how much my mother would have liked this...if you have read any of the prior stories you already know that mom's mind was amazing in many ways. She was a wonderful artist and worked in many different mediums, a self-taught cook, pastry-chef, and candy-maker. She knew both common and scientific names for most plants that grew on our farm and would make me repeat them when we worked with them, she would give me a nickel if I could name the type of roses(Dusky Maiden , the Duchess, Hume's blush etc.) we had in our garden. I actually earned a couple nickels...I would get a quarter if I could find a plant mom didn't know both names for (never got a quarter).

     I loved to cook with mom, and thankfully most dishes I make are edible since I never use a recipe and very seldom are they made the same way twice, with the exception of candy. Candy was the only thing mom used a recipe for  because of the complex nature and the fact the temperature varied so widely from candy type, some of my fondest memories are of cold Decembers with the kitchen widow cracked open, the Mable table in front of it and fudge, peanut brittle, or dipped chocolates cooling on it. Mom would makes mounds and mounds of candy for neighbors, family, and friends. She more than once catered weddings for daughters and family members and even friends, she had 30 or 40 molds used to make various types of hand-made chocolate mints. I remember spending hours and hours dipping and pouring molds and chocolates, all the while my mother smiles, hums, sings, tells a story, or just talks about life. Sometimes her life, sometimes we talked about other people we knew. When my friends were over, they were invited to join in the work and the conversation and love. One of my best friends, Scott Fugate, would get just as many hugs and kisses from mom as I did, yet that was okay because we all saw mom love so many people without ever feeling neglected or needing to compete for her attention, still not sure how she did that.

     When I was a teenager, my mother decided it was time to learn how to drive. She would have been in her late forties, her husband and six of her eight children had their driver's licenses, she had counted on Ruby Brown, but Ruby had recently had some health issues, and considering who (me) was coming of age I think she thought she might need some mobility. I remember one of our conversations about driving, since I was already driving the old Dodge truck or International Scout around the farm, and me as a kid reassuring her that there was nothing to be afraid of. It was simple...of  course I had no clue what I was talking about, yet as I mentioned before I knew that mom knew and felt the fear failure, but never let that stop her from trying something new or something that needed to be done. She learned this young when her mother died when she was a teen (17) and her father left her, her two sisters (Miriam and Unity) and her brother Harold. (To my nieces and nephews, your fathers and mothers have a wonderful history of this that Aunt Unity sent to each of the Madsen children I would encourage you to get a copy if you haven't read it ) Mom got her driver's license, and continued to teach herself new things all throughout her life... and when things needed doing, even though logic said, "wait or let's plan this out, "  mom had a sledge hammer in her hands breaking down a wall between the dinning room and kitchen, or splitting rocks to face a 2 1/2 story fireplace, or building several long rock walls. Mom always took the words "it can't be done " with a glint in her eyes and a slight crook in her smile...you went on your way and the next time you came back she had started it, so you either help her finish it or shut up and watch. She did this with all types of service, home projects, and yard improvements. As far as I know, mom didn't attend any education more than high school, yet she was intelligent, well-read and spoke well on all subjects. I know she had many aspirations and desires, yet I don't remember her ever complaining to me about her life and the things that she had and had not been able to do...it was, and has been a great lesson to witness in action and be able to call upon in my own life. I have not been as good at not complaining as mom was, and maybe mom had someone to relieve some stress with... I hope so. This woman could have accomplished anything she wanted, and had any acclaim that the world could offer..I will be eternally grateful that she chose to be my mother and exhaust so much of her effort in my behalf.

Gertrudism #6 "Hard work schools all parts of Self... Mind, Body, and Soul."





Sissy, Gertrude, and Unity

The Amazing Magical Mind of Mom

Being a 9 year old boy on a small farm in Centerville, Utah with endless chores and things that needed doing, fixing or building at times, was overwhelming. Mom on the other hand seemed to have figured out you could only do what you could do, so why worry about everything else. My father was not of the same ilk. Each day when I arrived home from school there was something that needed attending too, a cow that I needed to learn how to milk; pigs, chickens, rabbits and cows to feed.  Pens to clean, trees to prune, ground to plow, or rocks to clear. Now I had several brothers and sisters to help in these endeavors, so thankfully I was not left alone in most of these tasks, yet there were many that my mother and I tackled together. Besides my mother's singing voice, was her amazing mind. She had a way to tell a story that would allow me to hear, smell and seemly touch the very places she would describe. I would later recognize the stories as her variations of Huck Finn, Aladdin, Peter Pan, and many Greek and Roman legends. Her ability to manipulate time was magical and dark often caught us before our task was complete. I would wonder in awe where several hours had vanished and why I felt so sore and exhausted when all I had done was listen. She was preparing me for the many times she wouldn't be there...when I would desperately need her magical spell of the comfort to hide in those stories when I was scared, nervous or lonely. How powerful a legacy to leave. That amazing ability I know has been past on to many in our family as I watch the work you do professionally, as hobbies, and with your families. How very pleased mom would be to see the immense creativity that her children and grandchildren use and share. I look at Chris's photographs with wonder and stories come flooding to mind, Josh's sets and I am transported, read the writings of so many of my nieces and daughters, see first hand my sons' personal gifts, witness the many talents of each of the children of my brothers and sisters, I know that mom is alive and well and running through the veins of those she loved.

My chores sometimes started with a treasure hunt, of the most unusual kind. I would come home and there would be a slice of Red Barons Frozen Pizza or a freshly toasted peanut butter and honey open faced sandwich. I would be asked to choose one. When I had finished, the piece of paper under the food item would lead me to my first clue. Five or six clues later I would find my fate...which chore, and alone or with mom. I always got to eat the other food item which was good. Now that I think of it, mom was the one who told me I might be working alone and I dreaded that outcome, but it never happened, maybe there was never and end slip with alone on it... so for my ninth or tenth birthday my mother held a birthday party for the neighborhood kids and my friends, and yes I actually had a few, which ended up being an epic treasure hunt. ( I later learned my sister, Lynne, had helped my mother plan. Now there was another truly extraordinary woman that was taken from this earth way to soon for my liking... I miss her to often and deeply. ) So 10 to 12 kids given maps of burnt parchment, with clues and markers spread out over several acres, working as teams or as individuals it was your choice, the theme was of course pirates. The hunt took an hour or so, time was my mom's ally, and focus for this age group was no easy task. At the end we all seemed to come to the treasure close to the same time, there we dug, in a pile a gravel to find a chest filled with birthday bobbles, gold coin chocolates, jeweled hard candies, strings of pearls (hand strung mints on string), crowns, and cups of gold. We divided the loot and sat for a feast, my older brother even figured a way to have cannons with pipes and firecrackers announcing my ninth or tenth birthday.

Mom was amazing in so many ways. Her mind, though I am sure knew fear of failure, never seemed to allow it to stop her from trying something new. I will speak of this later, for this is one of the lessons she taught that has served me all my life.

This is my mother most famous Gertudism...

Gertudism#5 Frustration is the immature inability to cope

  

The Closet

      I sit on a very hard wood chair staring at the opaque glass in front of me, mouth open, and my ears tingle. My mother is on the other side of that glass yelling at my elementary school principal. I have never heard her raise her voice to anyone outside our family...Now I know my mother wasn't perfect and with nine kids, a farm, and a traveling salesman for a husband, she was not a stranger to raising her voice, a temper or discipline, but time has an amazing way of softening the harshness of life and amplifying the good. I was disciplined considerably more than the rest of my siblings and my mother, knowing me well, knew that I couldn't stay in this world when I was having fun and engaged. My mind would wander to my own little world, so time out was just an invitation to explore and I would never understand its purpose or why I was being punished. There wasn't anything to take away( except baseball, my first true love ) and that would be more a punishment for mom than me. So her choice was spanking. She had three preferred methods, all of which I think caused her more pain than me (Hand, Belt, magazine (my favorite)). These corporal punishments were potent, concise, and not up for interpretation. I knew without a doubt why and what I had done. But I digress...

         My mother was yelling. Here is the reason why, several months earlier my third grade teacher Miss Firebaugh had run out of yardstick to break over me and patience. (next time you see me look at my left ear lobe. It is longer than the other one, it was her favorite to drag me out of class with) On the second floor of the old Centerville Elementary school was a converted Janitor's closet approx. 6 by 8 feet. It had two dirty windows and a green tile floor two wall staked with books no longer used in classrooms from Kindergarten to 6th grade. and two desk that faced each other. (they would use it for detention every once in a while).

     That is where I would spend between three to five hours a day, I remember once feeling so cloistered that I took my t-shirt off, spit on the window, and rubbed a small quarter size clean spot so I could peak at the mountains to the east. I couldn't read, but I knew what all the pictures were, so when I saw a picture of a dog I figure out a way to lift the letters off the page in my mind, rearrange them so they made sense and run them across my eyes in front of the picture of the dog. So it went, I didn't complain because it was challenging to get more and more words at once to flow, soon it took little effort to lift, rearrange, and redirect the words. The problem was and is to this day that often I had no idea what they meant or how to pronounce them.

     My world came crashing in shortly before school ended. There in my closet, the teacher didn't realize that since it was a janitor's closet first there had been a ventilation grate placed in the door and that when the teachers gathered by the drinking fountain their words would echo in the small room as if I were in a bell tower and someone had rung the bell. Most of the time they were just words and just noise, but this day my teacher was there and my name was spoken, one of the teacher asked how I was doing? " I don't know. I'm not sure he will ever get it. I think he might have a bit of retardation."  I knew that word. I closed my book and tears began to flow, at lunch I went to the office and told them I was sick. Ruby drove my mother to the school to get me (since she didn't drive) I was silent all they way home. My mother knew I wasn't sick, but didn't press me.

     I'm not sure why, I went straight to my thinking place. At our Centerville home we had a root cellar. On the south side was a beautiful rock garden. There was a larger rock in the middle with snow on the mountain around it and hen and chick (a small plant ) next to it that I liked. I climbed on it and cried as I wondered when they would come and take me from my family and put me in the special place for retarded people like me. I wondered if my mom could come visit me, if I would have friends and if they served any thing but oatmeal... I didn't like oatmeal. Most of all I was going to miss my family. Finally my mom couldn't take it any longer and came out to sit next to me which was hard for her. Ruby stayed by the house. I told her everything, as always..my mother wept as if someone had hit her. I didn't understand. I thought she was worried they were going to take me away too. She must have read my mind for she grabbed me so fiercely it shocked me and told me no one will ever take me from her, that I was brilliant, smart, and clever, another first for me and oh how she loved me! She told me it would be okay, to go play, then I saw something I had never seen after my mother finished talking with Ruby, the color of her face matched her name. 

      A note: To this day I struggle with the impact of these few little words, be very careful with the words you say. You can never remove the power they carry. You want your kids to be brats call them that, want them to be bad call them bad, even terms of endearment can have lasting effects. Please think twice before opening your mouth in anger or hate.


Gertrudism #4 "You want to irritate someone that is mad at you forgive them "

The Dream

So I woke from a very real dream, I must have been around seven. You will understand why that is significant soon. So you understand a little about my brain due to my not being able to read when I was younger I taught myself how to memorize thing so I could get by. I have five dreams that are so indelibly imprinted on my mind that they can be consistently recalled with the details of an engraver plate. This was one of those dreams, but it is the only one that is pleasant, peaceful, and beautiful.  It is the only one I choose to ever recall. It was spring. I was still in school because I remember being very distracted wondering if the woman in my dreams was outside in the beautiful sunshine, the blooming flowers and green grass. When I finally arrived home as was custom, my mother was there occupied in one of the many things she was required to do, however as always was the case she stopped what she was doing to wrap me in her arms, kiss the top of my head, and ask how my day had been. When my answer was just as distracted, she knew something was up, especially after she had offered me food and I said  not right now...with as large a family as we had in as small a house as we lived there was no privacy anywhere. There was a chair in the corner of the living room (mom would pay me to sit there, I don’t think I ever earned the money) I could sit half on the arm without feeling like I was hurting mom, she had this way of talking with me that let me feel safe talking about anything and that continued until the day she died, I told her of my dream: I was in a beautiful field of waste high grass that is soft with just the slight moisture that has been warmed by the sun, for once I am clean from head to toe my clothes are beautiful and pressed, I had no shoes on but the ground is comfortable and enjoyable to walk on, the air is alive with noise: I hear insects, birds, dogs and many other animals I know, I am completely safe in fact I feel at home though I never seen this place. My attention is focused on a large tree a short distance away. I can't tell its type but I know I want to climb it to the very top. As I get closer I can hear the stream unmistakable in its rhythm, percussion and tempo. I am now standing at the stream the tree on the other side and to my surprise this beautiful young woman in a flowing white dress with small yellow daisy embroider around the hem, bouts and sleeves. She was maybe 21 or 22 had long dishwater blonde hair a slightly crooked but brilliant smile and intense sparkling eyes...Her eye reminded me of mom's, kind and caring, I trusted her immediately. She held out her hands and walked to the middle of the stream she also had no shoes which I thought was real neat, I joined her in the middle of the creek and we laughed at the coolness of the water her hands were warm and gentle but held tightly to mine, she bent down the bottom of her dress was now wet but she didn’t seem to mind, she wrapped her arms around me and picked me up and carried me to the tree. We sat for a long time saying nothing; me just nuzzled under her arm while she stroked my hair and hummed a soft tune (I later found out was edelweiss ) the last thing I remember is falling asleep in her arms with her saying " it's ok go to sleep little brother"  My mother was crying. I didn’t know what I had said or what I had done wrong. I was worried, nor did I understand why the woman in my dream would say that. My mother saw my concern; when she got control of her emotion she explained and called me her little angel (now that was a first and I think only time) My older sister Kathy drowned when she was seven, about my age, my mother had been missing her and wondering about her and her progression. I was smoother with kisses and was suddenly very hungry which mom was more than happy to remedy. Now I might have heard about my sister dying before that time but to my knowledge I hadn't and to find out that I had an older sister named Kathy in the way I did seem ok to me because I already knew she loved me had an amazing smile and maybe even a touch of my mischief disorder they way she entered the stream with a smile, laugh with her only care being me.

Gertrudism#3 " holding a grudge only effects you! the other person probably doesn't even know or care your mad at them"