Last year Dad compiled all of the bits he had collected about mom and sent all of us kids a copy of mom's biography. This year he asked each of us to compose an essay or journal entry or what ever we wanted to put on paper and send it to him. He plans to take everyone's contributions and add them to his biographical account--we will get a copy of the entire thing for Christmas 2016.
This is what I sent.
I Remember Mom November
2016
Carolyn Eva
These are just random
collected memories. I’m sure that many
of the facts I recall are not truly factual—but have been transformed so that
my head can make sense of them all. I
will be interested to read how the rest of you recall the events that have led
to who we are.
MUSIC
I remember that mom once set
a goal for herself: to memorize a
classical piece of music to play for either Nate or Rob’s farewell Sacrament
Meeting. The congregation watched as she
walked up to the piano and sat down to play.
She was obviously nervous, and a minute or so in, she made a mistake and
couldn’t remember what came next. She
tried to restart again from where she made the mistake—which rattled her even
more. Finally, she stopped. She turned toward the audience and told
everyone in the chapel that she was going to start over . . . and so she
did. She played the piece beautifully.
MUSIC
It was midnight in Santo
Domingo. OMI (Ocean Mariculture
Incorporated) had crashed, but Dad assured us that everything would work
out. Dad had to leave for the States—and
mom was alone to take care of us and get ready to move to our new home in
Maryland. I woke up and everything was
dark—but there was music. I walked into
the main living area and sat in one of the cushy gold chairs so I could listen
without her seeing me. She played The
Maple Leaf Rag and other songs she drew from her memory. She played on the piano that Nathan and
Robbie teethed on—that got sold and left in the Dominican Republic. Hearing the familiar notes covered me like a
blanket and I was so thankful that she had those melodies in her—to pull out
when she wanted them.
THE STAKE YOUTH DANCE,
SALISBURY, MARYLAND
We were living in Salisbury,
MD. I remember when mom was asked to
organize a Stake Youth dance. Because
the Stake covered so much area, the dances were not very well attended. Her solution was to do things a little differently.
She started by making invitations to send to every youth in the Stake between
the ages of 14 and 18. Even for a
relatively small Stake, there were still LOTS of kids to contact. There was no budget for invitations—but mom
wanted invitations. She folded a
regular, white sheet of paper in 4ths and, on the front, drew a large bouquet
of flowers tied with a bow. Underneath
the bow were the words: You’re Invited! She
began to draw and then handed me a stack of paper. I think that Susan and Martha also drew
flowers, bows and words. When we began,
the seemed to be an endless number of flower bouquets that needed to be
drawn—one flower at a time. By the time
we were done, I had learned by watching mom how to make the bows under the
bunches of flowers look like they were 3-dimentional.
To prepare refreshments for
that dance, mom invited sisters from our ward to come over. They made dozens and dozens of loaves of zucchini
and banana bread. She cut watermelons in
half length-ways with a zig-zag pattern. Then the women sat down at the table
and made melon balls: watermelon, cantaloupe, and honey-dew melon. Each piece had to be perfectly round—without
seeds inside. I asked her why they were
being so exact about taking every seed out—she replied “That’s the way it is
supposed to be done.”
The day of the dance, there
were real cloth tablecloths for the refreshment tables and cut-glass punch
bowls filled with real punch. The youth
began to arrive—in numbers that surprised the Stake Youth leaders. Half-way through the dance, all of the melon
balls had been eaten, all the banana and zucchini breads had been sliced and
consumed, and all of the punch had been swallowed. Ward and Branch youth leaders came up to her
at the end of the evening and thanked her for putting so much effort into the
event.
I learned that when you were
asked to do something, you do the very best you know how because “That’s the
way it is supposed to be done.”
EDINA, MINNESOTA
I remember the countless Ward
talent shows that our Edina, Minnesota ward held to raise money. There were craft sales—Mom made large
beautiful Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls stuffed with kapok. Their faces were hand embroidered and each
strand of hair was knotted in place.
In those days, Church units
were in a constant push to raise money.
In Minnesota, they did this by having suppers. Some were pancakes, served by the
Scouts. I remember mom saying that one
of the members worked for Green Giant and would bring in fresh corn and fresh
tomatoes once a year. At the end of the
food, dozens of people shared their talents.
Mom taught Susan, Martha and me us to sing “Do Re Me.” When we sang “My Favorite Things,” I was
jealous that Susan’s solo included the “cream colored ponies.”
Mom sewed rain coats for us
and then found umbrellas to match. Those
were for “Singing In the Rain”—I remember part of the choreography when we held
the open umbrellas on the ground and walked around them.
We sang at one of her Class
Reunions in Afton, Wyoming..
She taught me to sing alto by
singing with me during the hymns each Sunday in Sacrament meeting. When Susan, Martha or I would complain “Why
do WE have to learn this?”, she would tell us that it was because “We were
Wagstaffs—and that’s what Wagstaffs do.”
MUSIC
She told me a story from when
she was young. She had been asked to
accompany someone when they sang a solo for Church. Even though she practiced very had, she could
not keep the required tempo AND hit all the notes in the music. She asked another woman to take her place—and
was surprised that this older woman didn’t play all the notes, either. Grandma Burton told mom that we were given
talents to serve—not to be perfect.
EDINA, MINNESOTA
I remember that mom used to
feed an albino squirrel that lived in the backyard of our Minnesota home. She was so patient that, eventually, it would
climb up her arm and take a nut from off her shoulder.
I remember her rocking Crook,
our Siamese cat, in the rocking chair at night to comfort him when he first
came into our home. I also remember
Crook climbing up the screen door and ringing the doorbell when he wanted to be
let in. He killed moles in our yard,
then laid them neatly on the back porch—and yowled at four or five in the
morning until mom came to the door, opened it a crack, and told Crook that he
did a wonderful job. We all loved Crook.
He would lay limp as we dressed him up in doll clothes, and purr loudly as we
petted him. Mom scrambled eggs for
Crook’s breakfast.
EDINA, MINNESOTA
Mom had washed some of her
crystal goblets and was in the process of putting them away. I heard a tinkling smash and about half an
hour later, she came and showed me the injury.
Mom was carrying too many in each hand as she reached to open the door
of the china cabinet. One goblet slipped
and in her effort to catch it, the others in that hand shattered and sliced
across the back of the biggest knuckle of her right hand. Somehow she had stopped the blood flow. She came to find me and showed me how the
knuckle joint moved. I remember the creamy
white tendon and how it floated over the bone as she flexed her fingers. Mostly, I think I remember her fascination
with how her body worked—and I was so glad that she would show it to me.
DES MOINES, IOWA
I felt that same fascination
years later, when she had a port put in.
When she was in the final years of chemo, it became impossible for the
nurses to raise a vein to get blood for testing. One day I was with her, just talking, and she
asked me if she could show me the port. I
was pleased that she would share that with me—and fascinated to see how it
worked. As she opened the right shoulder
of her shirt, she studied my face carefully.
I thought the port was a wonderful thing—it was amazing that doctors
could fashion such a way to access the blood needed for her treatment. When I looked at her face, I saw relief. She explained that most people were repulsed
at the very idea of an artificial thing inserted into her skin. I told her that I thought it was incredible
and asked her to show me how it worked.
I also remember giving her
shots in her arm (Interferon?)—and hating that I was hurting her.
FAMILY
Mom was always reading. I developed a passion for books through her example.
She loved Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre and Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth. I also
learned, from the books that mom read when Nate and Rob were babies, that there
were multiple ways to handle a situation.
I didn’t have to react to those around me . . . I could ACT as I chose.
I learned, from her continual encouragement,
that I could be an influence for good in my own family. “Take lots of pictures and take lots of time
with your children—they grow up so fast and then they’re gone.”
I remember when she would
tell all of us that she felt we were spiritually older than she was . . . and
that was how it was supposed to be. If we were not more spiritual, more
diligent, more obedient than she and Dad were, then our whole family was
regressing. We could go forward or slip
backwards: there was no standing still.
ROCHESTER, MINNESOTA, MAYO
CLINIC
I remember going to Minnesota
to be with mom and dad at the Mayo Clinic when mom had a bone marrow
transplant. After the transplant, she couldn’t have fresh fruit (except
bananas) or vegetables (because of the high risk of infection). The doctor let me make fresh squeezed orange
juice for her. I got to donate a dose of platelets to her
just before the transplant.
I remember her blending
frozen orange juice concentrate with water and raw carrots for us to drink.
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
I remember her being so sick
in Dominican Republic. After an operation (to remove her gall bladder?), I
spent the days taking care of her. While
I was with her, she would drift in and out of sleep. When she was awake, she would continuously
whisper “Dolor. Dolor. Mucho
dolor.” Between pain shots all I could
do as rub her lips with ice chips since she wasn’t allowed to drink water.
NORTH PALM BEACH, FLORIDA
I remember driving with her
for a doctor’s appointment in Miami when we lived in North Palm Beach. On one
trip, we both kept smelling something that seemed to be burning. We stopped at a car repair place and they
took time for us when we arrived. One of
the repair techs got in the car and drove it around the block. He apologized, but he didn’t smell anything
unusual at all. We got back into the car
and we continued on our way south. It
wasn’t until later that she realized that the parking break had been on the
entire time.
I remember seeing her sitting
in the doctors’ office. They didn’t know
what was wrong. For one test, they had
her sit with one forearm and hand in ice water—testing the blood for changes as
her blood temperature rose and fell. They
eventually concluded that her white blood cells reacted to infection or stress
by attacking the red blood cells.
Just five or so years ago, I
heard on the radio that researchers had found out what was actually happening
to a person with mom’s condition—and that they had a cure for it.
I remember crying for a long
time.
PROVO, UTAH
I remember her making my
wedding dress—and then having to re-make it the night before Brent and I were
sealed in the Provo Temple by Uncle Phil.
I had lost a lot of weight between the time she took my measurements and
the day of the wedding. She was not
happy with me. I still have the dress and put it on when I am feeling sad—it
reminds me of how mom is a permanent part of who I am.
EDINA, MINNESOTA
When I was 8, she made me a white cotton dress
with a fitted waist and a very full, gathered skirt. That was the dress that I
was baptized in.
She also made the three of us girls lace
dresses with dark blue sashes around the waist.
They were her vision of “Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.”
from The Sound of Music. I also
remember that wearing that dress always made me itchy.
SALISBURY, MARYLAND
When I was in high school,
she sewed beautiful costumes for me when I was in “Carousel” my senior year—my
favorite was made from a subtle, peach coloured bed sheet. She also played piano with the school band
that provided music for the production.
I remember that she had a hard time reading the hen scratched, handwritten
score—but she mastered it.
EDINA, MINNESOTA
I remember what a treat it
was when it was my turn to have her as a Room Mother when we lived in
Minnesota. She brought things in for
class parties—and for the Christmas party she would make spudnut donuts. When she made them for Susan or Martha’s
class, I remember coming into the kitchen, feeling like I was witnessing a gooie
battlefield after all the generals and troops had retreated. There were sticky circlets covering the count
tops—evidence that the donuts had each been dipped into the glaze and then laid
carefully—one next to another—as they cooled completely. There were
occasionally a couple of burnt ones.
They were physical evidence that the perfect ones were being enjoyed by
someone else’s class.
STAR VALLEY, WYOMING
Every summer we went on
vacation to Wyoming and Utah. Dad would
get up when it was still dark and put us—still in our pajamas—on sleeping bags
spread out in the back of the station wagon.
(We always had a station wagon!)
He would drive until we were all awake and then we would change into
shorts and tee-shirts and stop for breakfast at a real restaurant.
We sang as we rode in the
car: Cannibal
King, Tell Me Why, Doe a Deer, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and Hello, Dolly. Mom would make sandwiches while sitting in
the front seat and then hand them back to us.
There was always the big, round, tan and brown cooler filled with ice
and water. If someone wanted a drink,
mom would pull it up onto her lap and then push the button, letting clear water
into a cup.
When we crossed the state
border into Wyoming, we sang
Wyoming, Wyoming, land of the sunlight clear.
Wyoming, Wyoming, land that we hold so dear.
Wyoming, Wyoming, blessed art thou and thine.
Wyoming, Wyoming, beloved state of mine.
At Grandma Burton’s, there
were mountains. The water was so cold
from the tap that it made my teeth freeze.
Mom would take large, white, cotton kitchen towels and tie them around
us—folding them so that they held a glass quart jar tight to our stomachs. Then, our hands free, we got to go out to the
raspberry patch at the side of the house and pick raspberries to eat and to
bring in for making into jam.
NOW
I remember how, just after
she died, I would go to pick up the phone to tell her something I knew she
would find funny. But, of course, there
was no way to call. I still see things
while shopping and think, sometimes telling whomever I’m with, that mom would
have really liked this. And, much to my
children’s chagrin, I sing the Wyoming song every time we pass from one state
to another—sometimes I change the words to fit the state—mostly I don’t.
There have been a few times
that I have felt her spirit near me. I
don’t think that she hovers, though. She
has so many things to do—and she has already given me everything I need to find
help, give service and feel loved.
I am grateful that I had the
chance to have her as a mother. She gave
her all to me—to all of us—as her children.
I hope as she glances down every once in a while to see what we’re
doing, that she is proud of us and happy for the joy we have been able to earn.
I remember Nancy Kathleen
Burton Wagstaff. I am thankful for that.
