:Family Matters

June 23, 2006

From the deck behind our house I am able to look out across the reaches of the desert landscape that passes for our back yard, being at this point, somewhat satisfied that I have the upper hand in the never-ending battle between myself and the weeds that have taken up so much of my time since Spring arrived. The ‘compost’ pile, at least that is how MGH refers to it, is reaching higher/wider/longer with the results of all the debris that I have heaved onto it as I have made my way across my personal Garden of Eden. I however have other names for the ‘compost’ pile, none of which are very polite and I only utter them under my breath where only the angels ‘who are silent notes taking’ can hear me. I figure I will worry about those notes later. . .if you catch my drift which, I might add, is what that pile is doing. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see it some day take over the back yard completely but by that time it will be someone else’s problem, I hope.

It has occurred to me that it would be nice, very nice, to have a delete key for all those weeds. Then all I would have to do is aim at the appropriate weed give the merest of flicks to my controller and immediately all would be neat and clean as if there had never been life there. What would I delete? Let me name them:

Fox tails would have to be #1 with their seeds held stiffly at attention ready to jump onto shoes, socks, pants, in other words, anything that passes is fair game and once attached they don’t unattach themselves. I know this because I am married to a scientist who is always talking about controls and double blind tests which I have listened to very carefully which allows me to know how to conduct my own tests in the privacy of my home and be fairly confident that the results will give me the answer I am seeking. With this garnering of ‘how-to’ information I have set up my own careful experimental testing trials. I did this by running my socks, which seem to get more than their fair share through the wash and discovered what I already knew, but at least I now have proof (If anyone is interested they can contact me and I will release said info for a small monetary donation which will go to charity, of course.) they just burrow in and wait it out until they feel my feet and then they get revenge by poking me unmercifully. (Please note that they never wash out, which is what I hoped to show, having long suspicioned this fact it is now good to have scientific confirmation. Whoops, don’t bother to write and ask for details of this ground breaking investigation as I just spilled the beans in my last sentence. Oh, well, I really didn’t need anything anyway.)

There is nothing quite as thrilling as hopping up and down on one foot trying to keep a now sockless foot from touching ground, especially at my age where balance left me in the lurch a long time ago, as I dig for the offending point, for if that happens there is a little burr somewhat ovoid in shape covered with extremely sharp points just waiting for its ‘prey’ to descend close enough for it to lock on for a free ride into new unexplored territory where it can continue its rampant expansion, which, I have news for it, is not going to be anywhere it wants to go! This is because the ‘compost’ pile looms behind me and makes a very satisfactory landing place for these little darlings to spend the rest of their natural life span. (No need to worry about spreading them around as there is exactly zil/zip chance of that pile ever going anyplace unless it spontaneously combusts.

June grass with its gently waving seed heads dangling gracefully would be a good choice for my list. In its dry state it has a purplish hue and is rather pretty. This, however, is not reason enough for its continued existence, at least in my yard. Least you think I am overly harsh please note that it is at least consistent, as I tell all flies, hornets, spiders, and small rodents that my home is NOT their home and they can remove themselves or I will do it for them. This world is big enough that they can find their own homes and I will leave them alone as long as they care to remember ‘that good fences make good neighbors’,! So, I just tell the June grass to grow someplace else for I have learned to my sorrow that if left alone a patch soon includes extended family and friends who seem quite content to heed the call of ‘you all come and stay awhile’.
Rye grass is right up there as well because of the sheer volume of plant material that accumulates as it grows. The size of the compost pile is mostly due to the rye grass. This plant can be easy to pull or extremely difficult. I won’t even go into how often I have landed rather ignominiously on my behinder when I heaved on a clump expecting firm resistance only to discover it was so tenuously attached that a gentle tug would bring the whole mass into my hands. Memo to those who like to mess with plant genetics—how about a coloring system to clearly identify easy or hard to pull? I know I’d be willing to part with some of my wealth to support this effort.

On the farm, after the first months of frenetic planting which led to growth which in turn required hours of patient driving of the tractor up and down the rows to remove the weeds, with the cultivator, which if left to themselves would soon overpower the corn or soy beans or whatever was being so carefully nurtured in the hopes of reaping the bounteous crop that would allow us to continue farming. Dad pretty well turned the milking over to his girls so that he could spend time out in the fields. With his tan pith helmet enscounced firmly on his head he would be out from dawn to dusk and sometimes later trying to keep ahead of the situation. By the fourth of July most crops were ‘laid-by’ (a mid-western farming term which MGH tells me he had never heard until he served his mission in the middle west) which meant they had reached the point where the tractor could no longer pass over the plants without doing more harm than good. While there were always plenty of things to care and do for on the farm at least for a little while the heavily intense work was past. Dad could relax and spend a little time with his wife and girls. We looked forward to this relaxation period and the chance to visit with friends on the holiday. We always were constrained by the need to milk the cows both morning and night but still it was a treat to climb into our green Studebaker and head off for a days adventure. Why did life seem simpler then? A ride in the car to get an ice cream cone in town was all it took to brighten our day. Life was good.

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We put Joy on the plane at Las Vegas last night. Well, we did as much as anyone can at an airport in today’s post 9/11 world. We hugged her at the curb where we dropped her off at McCarren Airport and watched as she capabably handled her bags and headed into the building, off on the next leg of her ‘grand adventure’. She should be in Norfolk this morning where she will pick up her car at the LittleCreek Naval Base, get the oil changed and head off for New Orleans, an eleven hundred mile drive, where she is to report in as the newest member of the New Orleans Marine Forces Reserve Band on Friday morning. We love her and are proud of all the hard work that has gotten her where she is today.

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Hey all. Well, the movers came and boxed everything up yesterday, and everything went pretty smoothly. I can’t believe how much stuff we have!!! Justin’s mom helped me drive up the stuff that was still at Mom’s house. I’m glad to have it all on it’s way. But I’m not sure I’m looking forward to unpacking it! LOL Joy

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New baby arrived this morning at three-twenty. Vicky had been have contractions off and on all week. Her obstetrician, who she had seen last Thursday, rescheduled her C-section for this coming Tuesday and told her to let him know if the pattern of contractions changed. Well they did, the contractions that is, they tried to get hold of the doctor having rushed her to the hospital in the middle of the night. The nurses, however, were reluctant to call the doctor at such a late hour. Sherman, who was becoming rather agitated by this time pointed out that their reluctance to call was making the decision for them that they were saying they didn’t want to make. Baby and mother doing fine. Father still not recovered. Everyone send a prayer or two their way!

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As the poet Bobby Burns once said, “The best laid plans of mice and men go aft astray“. Joy will soon have her own story to tell about traveling across country by herself with two children. Her plane was delayed two hours leaving Norfolk today and will arrive in Atlanta to late for her to catch a connecting flight to Las Vegas. She, Jordan and Kendra will stay overnight courtesy of the airline and then leave tomorrow morning hopefully to arrive at ten a.m. Vegas time. Alrighty then big shift in plans required to pick them up because Sherm took Brooks up Wednesday night and stayed at Vicky’s sisters apt. planning on picking Joy & Co. up at 10:30 p.m which now, of course, won’t happen.

Sherman has two things going on in his life now that are equally challenging. He has pneumonia which took him to the emergency room early Tuesday morning (he didn’t know he had pneumonia when he went–we all diagnosed him with sun stroke because he had gone hiking with Brooks Sunday morning without wearing a hat) and began to feel ill soon after they got back and I do mean sick. He had a blinding headache along with chills and fever that didn’t seem to be getting any better hence his reluctant acquiesence to seek medical help. Vicky, who is scheduled for a C-section June 25th to deliver their second child, a little girl, has been having contractions and when she saw her obstetrician this morning he felt like the date needs to be moved up which means tomorrow (hmm–I wonder if that was why Sherm couldn’t reach her?) which means that Sherman needs to get home.

So plan B is going into effect. We will pick her up, (at least I hope it is a we and not just me) which I don’t mind doing in the daytime when I can see although I must admit that I dread the traffic in Vegas. Oh well, everyone needs to get out of their comfort zone now and again. Stay tuned to see what happened!

Oh yes, I almost forgot Mesa, their black lab, who ended up staying with us as Brooks took her place will be going with us as well. I like Mesa but I fear for her everytime I let her out to go do her business, which, if I let her get away with it would be every five minutes. As a pet becomes a family member and with the traffic in front of our house and I would hate to see her all over the road–not to mention the dog catcher who is ever vigilant in town. . . I will be glad to have her safely back to her own family. She is funny though. She likes to sleep on the couch which she knows she is not supposed to do so when I get up in the morning the first thing she does is slip off the couch before I can scold her.

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April,15, 2000

Dear Family,

Lucille sent me the following in response to my last letter. I appreciated getting her input and am including her reply in this letter because it gives another perspective.

Joanne, was glad to hear again the experience you had where you saw your mother on the other side. Someone told me long ago of that happening. I always remembered it. Another thing I remember is your mother telling in a meeting of having Sylvia with them for two weeks? while she was small. Had your family gone on a trip? She voiced her concern that it might have been hard for Sylvia to be separated from her parents at such a tender age, much as she enjoyed having her. I know it was very traumatic for your Dad that he was not in Iowa City when your mother passed away. No, I have not had any vision or appearance, etc. since Ford passed away. I only think of him in the spirit world renewed and happy, looking as he did much younger, with family and happily engaged in the work to be done there. He would so much have loved to be a temple worker here. It was hard for me to go to work in the temple for that reason. I understand how you feel about the need to put together memories. My dad died when I was 66 years old. I can remember his funeral. I have few memories of our life before he died. I think I have been persistent in my family history efforts partly to ease that feeling you describe. Maybe you girls could put together a book of memories? When I read your mother’s memoir, I wish she had written more. I never think of your dad in the cemetery. I was out there and I cleaned up the grave and put flowers on it a couple of weeks ago. The inscription is done. I will go and add more dirt and level it off again. It is just out of respect for his resting place but he is not there. Got to quit for now. Lucille


I called Kathy last night (May21,’00) and asked her some questions about what she remembered of mother’s illness. She had clear recall on many different events and is planning to write them in the near future. Kathy turned 16 in March of 1965. But didn’t yet have her driver’s licence. She said that she frequently traveled with Mother on her trips as District Primary President (this was when the district extended to Kewanee, IL as well as other far away places which she listed off but I have already forgotten which is one reason why she needs to be the one telling this part.) I hadn’t realized that mother had not been feeling well for several years. She kept going to see Dr. Whorrell who would listen to her complaints and tell her it was just her nerves for which he prescribed tranquilizers. Kathy told me that when Mother visited Darlene in Indianapolis after Elizabeth was born that she told Darlene that her mouth was full orf sores but that
it wasn’t contagious. (Oh, how she wanted to get her hands on that little grandbaby. It is good that she did because she was to have so few opportunities to do so.) Dr. Whorrell was not availaable when she got home after visiting us and so she reluctantly agreed to see Dr. Furmoto the other partner in the medical practice. Dr. Furmoto was an excellent physician (tops in his class in medical school but chose to come to a small rural area because he and his wife felt that would be the best place to raise their children.) Dr. Furmoto realized at once how sick she was and immediately put her in the local hospital at Keosauqua. She was transferred the following day to University Hospital in Iowa City, which is about 75 miles from the farm. Kathy thinks they told Dad just how
 dire the situation was (three weeks to three months of life expectancy) she doesn’t think Mother was ever told the truth of how sick she was. (Even as recently as 1965 the medical profession still shielded patients from knowledge of their condition.) Kathy said that she didn’t realize how serious it was for mother to be having massive amounts of blood transfusions that were given in an attempt to keep ahead of the leukemia Dad tried to visit her every day. This took herculean effort on his part as he had the cows to milk as well as the other chores that have to be done to keep a farm going. Kathy said she was able to go up on weekends and spend time with Mother. She remembers that Mother was in terrible pain and would drift in and out of consciousness. She said that no once expected Mother to die so soon. The nurses had even urged Dad to go home and to get some rest promising to call him if there was any change in her condition, which they did, but to late for him to be there with her, which haunted him the rest of his life. Kathy told me the following story but she wasn’t sure who it was that visited mother, we think it might have been Marian Flake. At any rate, Mother was visited by some one from church and she said that mother told her that she had been visited by men wearing white clothes and that they told her she was going home on Monday. The date would have been May 17th the day that she died. Mother assumed they were medical doctors because of their white clothes and that they were going to release her from the hospital. I had not heard this story until last night. I can’t help but think that she was visited by angels who gave her knowledge that helped make her last few days more bearable. It’s hard to believe that thirty five years have gone by. Why she was taken at such a young age is one of those questions that will have to remain unanswered at least for this life. Perhaps she needed to go so Dad could have his boys in John, Randy and Lynn. Cheri’ needed to come as well by the lineage that only Dad and Lucille could provide. How does that saying go? “God never closes a door without opeing a door”. And so we will leave it there in his hands and infinite wisdom.

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Here I am — not knowing how to
post anything, so I have to reply
to the message from me that Mom
must have put up for me.

Hillary did get off to the MTC.
She got all of her speaking done,
and the girls did sing. (The ward
choir was supposed to do prelude
and sing, but didn’t pull it off,
so our girls threw just the one song
together for that Sunday, under
the direction of our Bishop, who
said he’d be delighted to hear the
Scott girls sing again. I never
thought it would happen again after
they all left home).
In the MTC, Hillar is the only
female learning Dutch. After two days
she can already pray in that language.
Can a mathematical formula be made
out of that?
Love, Marie

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Brett graduated from Davis High School on June 2nd, and the next day moved to Provo, Utah. He is living in an apartment with Rob and two other roommates, although that is somewhat of a mis-nomer, because Rob is on a six-week-long trip, doing contract work for the New Jersey company he worked for last year.
Brett gave a talk in Stake Priesthood Meeting yesterday, and mentioned that he had hoped to escape two things when he left home: his mother’s curfew, and giving talks in church. He said his mother called two days after he moved, and he realized he had not successfully escaped her; then the stake president’s councilor called four days after the move to ask him to speak, and he found he had not escaped that, either.
He is having a good experience, though, and is enjoying being his own man.
Brooke and Brett left today to drive to Olympia, Washington, to visit Tina and her husband, Aaron, who have lived in the Olympia area (a little town called Tumwater) for all of two weeks. Aaron has a job with an engineering firm there, and Tina is seeking employment herself, hopefully with Boeing.
Amy and Jessica also left this morning, headed for Girls’ Camp at Bear Lake. This is Jessica’s first year, and Amy is a veteran by now. But they were both pretty excited, and it should be fun for them. Bonnie and I will go join them tomorrow evening, for one day.
Amy is working as a lifeguard at the local water park, “Cherry Hill” this summer. She is following in the footsteps of Brett, who spent two summers lifeguarding at the same place.
Bonnie and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary last week. What a ride it’s been!

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Hey all - okay, so I’m going to lay it all out… and maybe you’ll laugh (or go, “ewww”), but oh well. I wanted to share this poem that I wrote for Justin. I know some of it’s kind of cheesy, but hey, I haven’t written any poetry for several years! LOL

My love for you is going strong
Eventhough you’re far away
I know we’ve had our ups and downs
But you can know I’m here to stay
I’m forever yours, you are forever mine
I call you my best friend
I look forward with anticipation
For the day we’re in each other’s arms again

When I think of you
My heart swells with pride
As Honor, Courage, Commitment
Begin to show in your confident stride
I’ve always seen who you really are
Behind your walls of pain
Now I know that you can see it too
Your fight is not in vain!

You will succeed, you will overcome
You will find strength within
The Eagle, Globe and Anchor
Will define this treasured win
I will be standing by
A Devil Dog just like you
We will go forward together
Secure in all that we can do.

Through pain comes discipline
This lesson well we’ve learned
Unexpected though along the way
Are the love and respect we’ve earned

Can you feel it?
Can you see it?
It’s there surrounding you…

It gives you strength to keep on going
Each and every day
And there is a peace in knowing,
“You’re Still the One,” in every single way
“You’re still the one I run to, the only one I dream of
You’re still the one I kiss goodnight”
Forever and always
My love for you is bright

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June 8, 2006

The Sunday School lesson last week was about Ruth. The teacher began by asking if anyone had ever gone to a field and ‘gleaned’ as Ruth did in the fields owned by Boaz. The discussion for the day was to center on that most beautiful of stories found in the book of Ruth. In fact, this book contains my favorite verse in the scriptures:

“And Ruth said, ‘Intreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee for whither thou goest I will go and where thou lodgest I will lodge, thy people shall be my people and thy God my God’.” Ruth 1:16

While I was processing that idea and before I could decide if I wanted to take a stab at actually admiting that in their midst sat an actual former gleaner, not of small grains like Ruth in the Bible, but corn, solid, gold Iowa corn, she moved on. Being convinced, I believe, by the blank stares on the faces of the various class members that none of us had the barest idea of what was involved when following that pursuit and therefore couldn’t contribute to the enlightenment of anyone on this particular subject. While that might have been true for everyone else in the room it was not true for me. (My blank looking face is the result of too many hours in front of the ‘idiot box’where nothing is expected and I am rarely disappointed . All I ask is a pleasant buzz from the box which is soon drowned by a buzz from me to show I have fallen blissfully asleep.)

When we moved to the farm in Iowa the luxury of a regular paycheck was gone. Cash for purchases of most everything we needed was non-existent. We became introduced to the world of receipt books kept in a shoe box by the local store owners where the record of purchases, by members of our local farming community, was kept. This bill was paid each Fall after the crops had been harvested and there was, for a little while, money in the bank. Today, I suppose it would go on a credit card with an exorbitant interest rate determined by small men wearing green eye shades some where back east with little knowledge of the harsh reality that puts food on their tables, but then the local merchant was dependent on the farmers for his existence so he sent home groceries on credit and prayed for good crops just like everyone else. He had his own bills to pay.

My mother knew how to be thrifty. We learned this well and to our sorrow when it came harvest time and she rounded us up to go out to the corn field soon after we got home from school each day to collect the ears that had been missed by the corn harvester, a contraption that was pulled by my dad on his tractor with a conveyor belt in between two finger like things that when lined up properly with the row chewed its way down spitting out the stalks and sending the corn up to be hulled. If the corn stalks had fallen over for whatever reason then like as not the corn was left there on the ground concealed by its dried, crackly husk or stalk. Depending on just when the corn was harvested and what the weather had been like that Fall this could be a significant amount. (More than one year I can remember Dad harvesting until snow covered the ground and it was impossible to get everything picked. How sad that was for us as it meant the years hard work and often the profit was left standing in the field. So it was no wonder that Mother tried to do what she could with our reluctant help.

She was absolutely indomitable. Our job was to walk the rows and ‘glean’ the ears which we found by trudging along the furrows looking for a tell tale gleam of gold that would indicate we had found what we were hunting but mostly we just kicked at anything that looked like it might be an ear. If we got the right ‘thunk’ we would bend over and pick it up after twisting it off the stalk, if it was still attached. We would walk in the furrow gradually adding corn to our arms until we couldn’t carry any more and then we would go back to the closest bushel basket, which was where we placed the corn we had collected. We did this over and over and over until the coming dusk made it difficult to see, then, and only then did we gather our gleanings and head for the warmth of the house. Did I mention that this was done, quite often, in November when winter’s icy fingers were beginning to whisper over the land. It was cold. Our toes and fingers usually went numb first as they were the least well protected. Performing this task is also where I learned that mittens are much better at keeping ones fingers warm. We would wrap scarves around our face leaving only our eyes and nose exposed in an attempt to keep the cold from reaching anything but the most minimal amount of bare skin. It was absolutely amazing to see the things we tried to keep our extremities warm. We were such hot house flowers with most of our young lives, to that point, having been spent in the dry desert country of Arizona, so I quess it is not at all surprising that we felt the cold so keenly.

It was while gleaning that I first became acquainted with chilblains. If you don’t know what that is, be glad. Be very, very glad. I just looked up what Mayo Clinic had to say on the subject and after describing the symptoms i.e. Redness with white patches they conclude with the comment that the the best way to avoid it is not come in contact with cold. Well, “duh”. We knew that. We tried to tell that to our mother over and over. We cried and sulked but she just ignored us and said we weren’t going in until we had our baskets full or it got too dark to see, and she meant it. Barbara and I felt like she went lighter on Darlene who must have been all of eleven or twelve the first year that we gleaned in the corn fields. After all these I years I can see why she might be sent on errands that took her where it was warmer or allowed to quit before her two older sisters who should have been toasty warm from all the ire they felt at her privileged position as ‘favored’ child, but not then.

Once in the house we would talk for hours about the best way to ‘thaw’ out our extremities without experiencing the agonizing pain that could result from a too rapid warming. One school of thought held that bare hands held in place in one’s arm pits was the most superior method. Hah! Try that with a block of ice and see how long you can maintain that condition. Luke warm water was supposed to be good. If you sat there long enough you would gradually feel life, as you once knew it, returning, hopefully before the water in your bowl itself froze. (Babara used to take great glee in placing a glass of water on the window sill in our bedroom where it would freeze solid by morning.) We often retired to bed, with the rather glum thought, that at least today we had all our digits–but who knew about tomorrow. . . .

It was just as cold for my mother as it was for us but she would stay grimly on task, pausing only to give us well deserved tongue lashings that sent us back to our work. It probably seemed to her that it was like drinking Canada Dry—it couldn’t be done, but she still kept at it. Her desire to support Dad was strong. Come Hell or High Water she was not to be stopped if she once made her mind up which meant she dragged her reluctant daughters along with her to help with her impossible task. She had no business being out in that bitter cold tiring herself out as it had not been all that long since her bout with tuberculosis. As part of her treatment she was to take daily naps and not be involved in hard physical work which she faithfully adhered to before we became farmers. After the move I don’t remember her caring for herself the way she needed to which no doubt contributed to her early death at the age of fourty-eight. She was a full working partner with Dad choosing not to play the part of an invalid although she certainly could have.

In later years Dad just turned the cows in the field and let them do the gleaning. This saved us lots of tears and allowed us to leave home with all digits intact. I wish, though, that we had been more gracious about our task. That we had been able to see what Mother was attempting and been more supportive. Ruth, in this regard, we were not, but in gleaning that which would be lost—in that, we were sisters.

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