Thanks Be To Mother

Written November 3, 1999, in honor of my mother's 100 birthday. 

Happy 100 Birthday to my mother, Myrtle Morgan, born November 3, 1899. I still plan to produce a family cookbook in her honor, sometime. For now, I hope someone baked her a big birthday cake, in this world...or the next. She would have loved any kind but was always partial to a good applesauce cake with a boiled frosting.

We can thank my mom for good genetics. Both she and my dad were good looking people. It's nice for us to come from that kind of gene pool. If you have small feet and shapely legs below the knee, you can thank Grandma Morgan. I don't think she would be willing to take credit for anything above the knee. Some of us will have to find someone else to blame for what has gone on in other somewhat less shapely areas. Mother is responsible for the curly hair in our family, however. She always had beautiful hair. And clear skin. She wrinkled in her mature years but her skin was soft and smooth and clear.

I usually give credit to my dad for any musical ability passed on but Mother had a beautiful voice, in her own right, and sang with a family quartet, church and civic groups for years. I think she and my dad had the entire hymn book memorized plus all the good old songs of their generation. And a few naughty ones. She sang or hummed her way through her days. And she always sang at bedtime.

My mother left behind a legacy of expression through her writing. She loved to read. And she loved to be on stage, performing, whether at a community Halloween party, or during a lesson, or reciting entertaining things she was taught as a small child.

According to Aunt Louise, mother's oldest sister, my mom was one of the best cooks in the family.  Everyone loved to go to "Myrtle's" when they were all raising their young families.  Mother was really a "from scratch" cook starting with wringing the chicken's neck, digging the potatoes from the family garden, putting huge loaves of bread in a wood-stove's oven to bake, and skimming off the thickest cream from warm-from-the-cow milk for whatever would be dessert for that day, be it bread pudding, butterscotch pie, or fruit...fresh or home-canned.

Mother's hands were never idle, even during days when she felt too ill to do much. She always had genealogy spread out to work on, always had a quilt top or two in progress, always had a collection of scrap paper to write personal letters and somehow found money for stamps when she could barely afford food. She always had lots of her writing in various stages of completion with a poem or three mixed in, always had a crochet hook with fine thread in her hand, always had time to feed someone or rock a baby to sleep, and always wanted to play another Chinese checker marble game. There was always a huge jig-saw puzzle sitting on a table waiting for a few more pieces to fall into place. And Mother always had cookies in her cookie jar. She always found the time and a way to get to the temple or accept a church calling, even when it meant hitching up her own white top buggy and traveling with small babies, to get to the homes of sisters among her church congregation that she needed to visit. Mother always volunteered to teach the class with the wildest and meanest kids in it. She delighted in seeing those boys grow up to be successful and quite civilized.  Mother never passed by an opportunity to serve while her mind and body were able.

 Happy Birthday, Mom. I remember how much you loved flowers.  I know the gardens in heaven are especially glorious. I'm sure that kind of beauty is one of the things you must like best about your eternal home.

 Thanks for teaching me to love the earth and all that it can produce.  Thanks for showing me some things about being available to serve and about receiving service graciously and thankfully. I've learned to appreciate your efforts in getting me raised to adulthood without Dad. I'm sorry for my unkind words and thoughts and impatience when you were ill, or tired, or overwhelmed or fearful. I have a much clearer picture now of the struggle that can be, to go on with the things of a day, a week, a month, and years while coping with our individual challenges.

I didn't say thank you often enough. Nor did I shower you with nearly enough hugs and kisses. Hope these reach you all the way up to heaven. Sometimes, heaven seems very far away to me. And sometimes, I feel it touch my cheek.