Tuesday, December 13, 2016

I Remember--Memories of Mom

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.

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