A Tribute to my Mother

Tender isn’t enough when your husband suddenly dies, leaving you with eight children to rear, ranging in age from 1-18; especially when you have only an 8^th grade education.

Tender isn’t enough when you are financially, spiritually, and physically supporting eight dependent children, not to mention the lonely days and nights being a single parent; house and car repairs—oh wait, you don’t drive; but you have the old pickup for when the kids learn to drive; education, accidents, illness, marriages, grandchildren.

Tender doesn’t get you a job, or fix the meals, or clean the house, or milk the cows, feed the chickens, pigs, or horses.

Tender isn’t enough when you are planting, irrigating, cultivating and harvesting a huge vegetable garden, canning vegetables and fruit to last the winter. Also, a field to grow alfalfa and fruit trees.

Tender may help but it is not enough to make you want to take treats to all the old folks in town on every holiday; or visit the widows, the lonely, the mothers with new babies; and your sister daily after working at the Post Office all day.

Tender didn’t get you the only office job in town, that of Post Master.

Tender doesn’t make you love the children as Junior Sunday School coordinator for years.

Tender doesn’t help you give readings at funerals and special celebrations.

Tender isn’t enough to get you through the trauma of a malignant brain tumor resulting in numerous surgeries and cobalt.

You gotta be tough too. Very tough.

Amy Heaton

Amy Heaton & Lynn Esplin - Orderville 1926

Navajo Lake 1927

The brood Mama was left to support and rear. 1947
Verla 1, Carol Lee 5, Jerry 9, Jeanette 10, DeLoy 12, Lynn 14, Lucy 16, Shirley 18.

Amy Heaton Esplin - Orderville Post Master

A stinkbug lands on Carol.

Carol Lee, Shirley, Jeanette, Jerry, Mama, Lucy, Lynn, Verla

Orderville 1950

Esplin Children by age 1956: Mama, Shirley, Lucy, Lynn, DeLoy, Jeanette, Jerry, Carol, Verla

DeLoy, Jeanette, Jerry, Lucy, Lynn,
Shirley, Verla, Mama, Carol
1960 Orderville

Grandma and Grandson Brooke
Grand Canyon 1972

The Courage that my Mother had

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she'd left to me
The thing she took into the grave!-

That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.

The Crone

One More Day Part IV

Woman of Age, Wisdom, and Power

By Barbara G. Walker

We hear much about women’s nest-building instincts, which, after all, form the economic foundation of our consumer society; but we hear little of any nest-destroying behavior, which may be equally instinctive, as represented by several versions of the Crone.  An older woman may experience strong urges to weed out her possessions, to simplify her life by purging it of excessive impedimenta, to move to smaller quarters and keep them neater, to restrict her social contacts to a few good friends instead of a wide circle of acquaintances.  She may give things away, neglect her house, stop buying clothes.  Page 91.

That’s me.

Today I cleaned out one side of the new fruit room.  I crossed the threshold thinking there was no junk in there.  I filled half the backseat of the car with DI stuff; also filling half the empty garbage can. 

The mind of a postmenopausal woman is virtually uncharted territory, for men have shown little inclination to explore it.  Doctors and psychiatrists glibly ascribe any or all of her difficulties to “menopausal depression,” or a similar diagnostic catchall.  However, it may be that her real needs and urges simple are not understood, so the experts have no jargon to describe them, just as our society has no symbol to represent them.

Earlier societies apparently understood more about the nest-destroying stage.  (If you are interested in examples, let me know.  I have the book; you can also find it on the Internet.)  Page 91

My sister, Lucy, never got to the nest-destroying stage.  Maybe she was forever young or maybe she moved into her lovely new home too late.  She accumulated and built her nest almost until the day she died. 

 A few weeks before she died, she called and wondered if I had the picture of Mama “I think is hanging in your foyer.”  “Yes, I have it,” I admitted.  “It is supposed to be mine,” she said boldly, “Mama gave it to Shirley and since she didn’t want it, it is mine.”  “Actually, Mama gave that picture to me when we were cleaning out the old house; just Mama and me.”  “I would like it,” she said politely.  “What would you do with it?”  “I would hang it in my bedroom.”  She knew she was dying.  “I would be happy to make a copy of it and send it to you,” I offered.  “No, I want the original photo.”

Where was she when we were cleaning out the old house?  I got Grandma Heaton’s old treadle sewing machine too.  Anyone want a treasured sewing machine?

 Dishes and silverware from "out to the herd".  Authentic.  Original.

GUESTS

In all the homes of my brothers and sisters

Is a sampler Mama embroidered for each family.

Actually, I embroidered most, if not all, of my own

while I was in the hospital when Eddy was born.

Because of complications, we spent a week.

I always thought Edgar A. Guest wrote it.

Maybe because it starts with “Guest” or maybe it’s true.

On the Internet, some say “unknown”;

Some say “J. P. McEvoy”; and some say

Edgar A. Guest.

I’m sticking with Mama.

One of our most cherished books was

“Heap O’ Livin’”.

Mama quoted Edgar A. Guest almost as much as she

quoted scripture and proverbs when we were growing up.

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
     home,
  A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes
     have t' roam
  Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'
     behind,
  An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus
     on yer mind.
  It don't make any differunce how rich ye get
     t' be,
  How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great
     yer luxury;
  It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a
     king,
  Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round
     everything.

  Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up
     in a minute;
  Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'
     in it;
  Within the walls there's got t' be some babies
     born, and then
  Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women
     good, an' men;
  And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye
     wouldn't part
  With anything they ever used--they've grown
     into yer heart:
  The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
     little shoes they wore
  Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the
     thumb-marks on the door.

  Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t'
     sit an' sigh
  An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know
     that Death is nigh;
  An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's
     angel come,
  An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave
     her sweet voice dumb.
  Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'
     when yer tears are dried,
  Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an'
     sanctified;
  An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant
     memories
  O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape
     from these.

  Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got
     t' romp an' play,
  An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em
     each day;
  Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom
     year by year
  Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin'
     someone dear
  Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em
     jes t' run
  The way they do, so's they would get the early
     mornin' sun;
  Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from
     cellar up t' dome:
  It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
     home.

''Just start to sing as you tackle the thing.”  Edgar A. Guest

Mama did that too.

We were reared on Church hymn doctrine.

If we didn’t want to tend the baby,

  She would gently begin to sing:

   If we knew the baby fingers
   Pressed against the window pane,
   Would be cold and stiff tomorrow—
   Never trouble us again—
   Would the bright eyes of our darling
   Catch the frown upon our brow?
   Would the prints of rosy fingers
   Vex us then as they do now?

That is from

   SCATTER SEEDS OF KINDNESS

   The other verses are a sermon too.

   Let us gather up the sunbeams,
   Lying all around our path;
   Let us keep the wheat and roses,
   Casting out the thorns and chaff;
   Let us find our sweetest comfort
   In the blessings of today,
   With a patient hand removing
   All the briers from the way.

Refrain

  Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   For our reaping by and by.

   Strange we never prize the music
   Till the sweet-voiced bird is flown!
   Strange that we should slight the violets
   Till the lovely flowers are gone!
   Strange that summer skies and sunshine
   Never seem one half so fair,
   As when winter’s snowy pinions
   Shake the white down in the air.

Refrain

   Ah! those little ice-cold fingers,
   How they point our memories back
   To the hasty words and actions
   Strewn along our backward track!
   How those little hands remind us,
   As in snowy grace they lie,
   Not to scatter thorns—but roses—
   For our reaping by and by.

Refrain

Words by May R. Smith; Music by Silas J. Vail

Whenever we quarreled or had a tiff with a friend,

Our rebuke was in song:

   Angry words! O let them never,
   From the tongue unbridled slip,
   May the heart's best impulse ever,
   Check them ere they soil the lip.

Refrain

   Love one another thus saith the Savior,
   Children obey the Father's blest command,
   Love each other, love each other,
   'Tis the Father's blest command.

   Love is much too pure and holy,
   Friendship is too sacred far,
   For a moment's reckless folly,
   Thus to desolate and mar.

Refrain

   Angry words are lightly spoken,
   Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred,
   Brightest links of life are broken,
   By a single angry word.

Refrain

The most repeated proverb was expounded

Every time we made a bed, swept a floor,

Or hastened in any task so we could slip outside.

  Our version was slightly different.  We said:

  All that you do,

  Do with your might;

  Things done by half,

  Are never done right.

All that you do, do with all of your might for things done by halves are never done right.

Back to Edgar A. Guest and Mama;

When I hear nothing from some of my sisters

after we spent a few days in our SunRiver home

for our annual Sisters’ Retreat;

I think a couple of them took to heart:

   “You don’t have to thank me,

   Or laugh at my jokes.

   Sit deep and come often.

   You’re one of the folks.”

Mama believed that;

She welcomed everyone into her home;

As did her mother before her.

And I need to too.

  Grow up, Jeanette