A LITTLE BLACK BOOK
January 18, 2009
A big thank you has to go to Kathy for her effort to save pictures and letters that might otherwise have been lost after Mother died. Barbara has contributed to this work as well and has been instrumental in working with Kathy in copying family pictures now in the possession of Dad’s second wife Lucille which she graciously allowed them to have access to one summer when Barb was visiting. Because of all this ’saving’ and Kathy’s generous nature I now have in my possession a small black notebook that belonged to my mother which is full of thoughts, poetry, outlines for talks as well as one or two prepared talks which she would carry with her on her many church assignments. (Among other things she served as a counselor in the Northern States Mission Primary Presidency in the early 60’s.) This cunning little book is five inches by seven with rings that can be opened to add fresh paper if desired. It’s small size allowed her to carry it in her purse which meant that she had ready access to it at all times. While I remember seeing it when I was still at home I don’t recall ever being interested enough to actually peruse it’s contents. To tell the truth I don’t know that I would have been allowed to if I had wanted as Mother was an extremely private person in many ways.
Looking at this little book more closely and catching a glimpse of what she found most important among its pages I find myself wondering who now is left to tell her story–of the good food she turned out meal after meal having eaten at her table? Her baked goods were legendary in the community and eagerly looked forward to by those who made it a point of supporting the small Keosauqua Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when they held their frequent bake sales which were to be a major means of raising their share of the money required to build a chapel on the outskirts of town; no small feat for a group that consisted of seven families none of whom had any loose change laying around to cover the expense of this project. She used to laughingly say that the money was raised cinnamon roll by cinnamon roll when talking about the work required to make a meeting place of their own possible. It breaks my heart to hear that the building is for sale, sitting empty as members in the area now meet in Fairfield, Iowa in a beautiful building built and completely paid for by the church which is how they do things now.
Who remembers the pride she took in having earned a degree from Arizona State in Home Economics along with a teaching certificate? Who has heard her tell the story of how she and her fellow classmates prepared a meal for their teachers and the dean of the college to show off the skills they had learned. How eagerly they worked to show that they had earned the title home economist which to their dismay dissolved into complete disaster when the beautiful apple pie that was prepared for dessert caused a reaction, but not the one they hoped for as forks were raised to mouths and the bite immediately spit out. Some how or the other salt had been used for sugar in the filling which made the pie inedible. Who remembers the beautiful dresses that she used to make for her daughters? The love that went into the planning, buying material, finding time to sew a dress that when finished would win a blue ribbon for quality every time. Who remembers her love of crafts and how she used her skills to beautify her home. Who remembers that she turned out many crochet projects with an attention to detail that is the mark of a master craftsman. Who remembers the large garden she cared for on the farm and the hours she spent canning and freezing so that our cupboards were never bare even though our wallets were often flat. Who remembers that she loved classical music? That she didn’t much care to listen to the radio?
I’m older now and things I used to have little interest in, such as family history, have moved up a notch or two on my list of things I care to spend my time on. I am beginning to realize that it doesn’t take much time at all before the memory of those who came before us in the preceding generation are gone as those who knew and loved them grow old themselves and disappear from life’s stage. There are so few people alive, other than my sisters and I, who remember her as a living breathing woman with hopes and dreams unique to her and she has only been gone since 1965. One of the poems I found carefully clipped and pasted onto the page in this little black book goes like this.
TO MY GRANDCHILDREN
Maude Hatch Benedict
When I am gone, will eager children look
Within the pages of this timeworn book,
Their questing eyes find nothing here to show
Fulfilled ambition, finished task; will they know
Pride—that I left footprints here below?
Will all the little tasks of love be lost
Forever, as a fluff of thistledown–
No heartache, tears, frustration’s cost,
Nor valor shown, when I am gone–
No thing of me to spur them on?
Or will they say of me, “she still belongs,
Her life was made of sunshine and of songs,
Where she walked some radiant memory
Of charm, of wit, of kindliness in giving,
The paths she trod made surer by her living!”
Will they smile, a wee bit wistfully,
While thumbing through this dog-eared old scrapbook
And for a moment will they pause to listen
For my heartbeat in its pages; will they look
Further, wishing to know more of me,
And close the book—a tear left to my memory!