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