Today....

...she would be 87 and we would have a party.


I remember once in elementary school coming home and finding my mom more emotional than usual.  I finally asked her what was wrong and she told me it was her birthday and no one had done anything for her.


I still remember desperately wanting to fix it and vowing to myself that I would always, ALWAYS, remember her birthday and there would always be a celebration.  My dad may not have been a big party guy, but I would make up for it and she would never again wonder if she was loved.


...and I like to think I did it.  I succeeded in celebrating every birthday of hers from that point on.


I think some children can be self-centered and I know I was the queen of "Me".  I was tender hearted enough and had compassion for classmates when they were picked on or baby birds that blew out of their spring time nests...but I had never really thought about my own mother's emotional needs before this experience.


...even today I feel a need to take care of and protect her.  I know mom's are supposed to be the protectors, but she was different, more fragile and I began to learn at a young age that she would be happy if I was happy(usually).


Her childhood, like so many of her generation, was difficult.   Though she said little, I have good reason to doubt her parents ever acknowledged her birthday.


Then she married my dad...who was always ready to go dancing on Saturday night, but was not the type to stop and buy his wife a birthday card.  He did try, once...once he brought her a heart shaped box with chocolates for her birthday.  Thankfully he removed the discount sticker from the Valentine's Day sale before he gave it to her.  She knew.  She laughed and I believe in his own way he did the best he knew how.  That became a great joke that she told up until the end of her life, that she was only deserving of Valentine's Day sale candy.  Matthew bought her a box of heart shaped Valentine's Day chocolates every year that she lived with us, but for Valentine's Day, not for her birthday.


...but her birthday was up to me.  A cake would be nice, but she loved pie more, so I always made her pie on her birthday, with cards and presents, everything necessary to let her know she was loved.


Matthew asked me recently if I thought they celebrate birthdays in heaven?  I don't know?  Maybe...or maybe time has little meaning there.  I've thought about it a little, but I still haven't come to a conclusion. 


...but I can bet you that if they do celebrate birthdays in heaven.


...my mom and dad are still laughing about that heart shaped box of chocolates.

Easter in UT...

...with glorious sunshine on Saturday...

...and snow on my tulips on Monday!

(poor little things hanging their heads in frustration at tricky Mother Nature)

I promise....

...that they will be there next year on the Easter dinner table.


...but not this year.  It was always Mother's responsibility to make the deviled eggs.  I got up yesterday fully planning to devil some eggs for Erin(she loves them).


...but every time I went to get the carton from the ice box...


...well...


not this year...


...but next year Erin and I will make them together.  Deal Erin?

Ask any woman...

...who's a seamstress, I mean an honest to goodness, pin biting, needle threading woman if you could have her scrap box in exchange for its weight in gold...


...and she will have to think about it a while, then she will take the gold.


...but in her next breath she will ask if she can, PLEASE, buy back that little blue checked gingham that is a left-over from her first child's baby quilt.   You can tell a lot about a woman by the rags she saved in her bag.


I have been feeling the spring cleaning itch and it really got to me when I went into my sewing room earlier this week.  Organza was dripping off the shelves, like frosting from a wedding cake, buttons were rolling around under my sewing table and there was dust UNDER my sewing machine???


...and I couldn't take it any more.


So I began like I begin every deep cleaning project...I dump it all out on the floor, all of it, a clean sweep of the shelves, heave it all into a big pile of stuff in the middle of the room...


...and then the magic begins.


It's like going shopping in my own private sewing room.  Unfinished projects, the instructions long since missing, patterns, the delicate tissue spewing out the end making me wonder if all those pieces really fit in that envelope and rolls of ribbon, like rising bread dough in a pan, threaten to explode and leave tell-tale signs of pink, green and Christmas red on everything it touches.


I found squares of brown felt from a school project, white beaded lace from a blessing dress and flannel with brown bears dressed in pink ballet slippers.  Little strips, big squares and misshaped pieces of cotton wait to be put to use.   I even found a small scrap of fabric that was used in a doll quilt I watched my grandmother sew on her treadle machine...and, yes, I still have the quilt.


...isn't that awesome!


I unfolded and refolded each piece, straightening the selvage and smoothing out the wrinkles, before placing them back on the shelf.


...but at my feet, an ever growing pile of scraps, pieces of fabric too small to be folded, but to precious to discard...

...so off to the rag box it is.


My great-grandmother, grandmother and mother all had them, rag boxes, that were actually wicker baskets.  When my grandmother died, I found 2 inch wide strips of cotton rolled into 6 inch balls waiting to be braided into a rug that she would stand on while making supper.  She was thrifty up to the end of her life.


...and if you look at the postage stamp quilt my great-grandmother made, you can see in the 1 inch squares a story of her life.  Squares from her husband's old shirt, strips of lavender from her "going to Sunday meetin's" dress, and one of her children's baby dresses with long eared bunnies have all been salvaged, hidden away to be kept safe until the time came that she had enough to actually make something.


Today, if I make a quilt, I run to the store and stew and fret over what color and pattern will match the best to make the loveliest quilt.   But none of those quilts I have spent so much money on have kept me any warmer than the rag quilts my female ancestors made.  In fact, I treasure those old quilts much more than the newer ones.


Do you have rag bag?  Did you have a vision of something you would make and then halfway through, life got in the way and the project dropped down the priority list?  If you answered "Yes" to those questions then you will understand this, Carlee's unfinished dress...

...and it got me to thinking about how women want to create.  They want to take something into their hands and make it better.  They want to make life more pleasant.  Whether they were in a soddy on the prairies of Kansas in the 1800's where there was little color to be found in doors or out, or are living next to Joanne's in the twenty first century, women want to bring something new into their world by making something beautiful.


I guess it isn't really about the fabric, new or old, it's about making life better for her family and in the process she may make something that will be handed down from generation to generation.  Chances are some woman in her family will someday wrap their child in one of those quilts and think about her.

...another happy thought brought to you by one of the finest quilters I have ever known, my Grandma Great, Nellie Keith Martin.


...and speaking of my great grandma, this was her pin cushion.  One of my treasures that I love.

He has an air about him...

...as he enters a room that tells everyone he is someone...




...not in arrogance, but in sureness.  He is confident he can help anyone and everyone, or at least he will try.  It's his responsibility through election, but it's his choice by selection.  He has chosen to be a public servant.



I love to watch the reaction of people when I tell them my brother is the sheriff of Dodge City, Kansas.  They immediately ask how Matt Dillon is doing? 



...and then I get to brag that my brother's picture hangs in the Ford County court house next to Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp and all the other famous cowboy/Sheriff's of Dodge, you know, the ones that died with their boots on.



Dean serves in an elected position and we all know in today's political climate what that means...one bad newpaper report and you are out on your keester, or keyster, or k'ster, or keestar (how ever you spell that).

I have been known to complain that I didn't grow up with a sister...but I've learned something.  You can always find a sister(don't misunderstand that statement, because a good, really good, adopted sister is hard to come by)...women naturally bond and love each other.  For example, my brother's wife, Debbie, is a saint (I'm not just saying that, she's Catholic, so she really could be a saint someday), and Matthew's sister, Christine, also a saint (as in latter-day saint).  They have rallyed around me when I needed it most the past few months.



...but a brother is a little harder to come by.  By nature, men don't go around looking for someone to bond with and become siblings with.  You have to be born as a brother to be a brother.  (I'm not trying to dish men, I just have an opinion on this and you all know I love men, well certain men, anyway, but I believe God made men and women different, fortunately, so women are bonders, men, not so much).  However, I did watch my dad when he saw his fellow soldiers at army reunions and they were as much brothers as any man could be.

(Dean and I in the middle with our mom's brothers on each side, Uncle Howard on the left and Uncle Fred on the right, great men all of them and the only place I feel short)

As a child, I always felt safe when Dean was with me and I knew if anyone picked on me he would take them down. Actually, Dean is a great negotiator so he probably would have just talked to them, but one good talking to by Dean and you won't cause trouble again.

...to say I'm proud of Dean is an understatement.  I'm proud and honored to call him my big brother.  He has given me far greater love than I ever earned and help me feel safe when I really needed it.



People have told me how their families have broken up over wills and trusts when their parents died.  Not us...no way...nothing is more important than Dean to me and I believe he feels the same way about me.  It feels good to know he is watching over the farm, taking care of my half as if it is his own.


We are the only two left now that mother is gone, certain memories that only he and I share.  Over time those memories will only grow and our time together will become more precious.



Dean has an attitude that tells me I am the most important thing to him when we are together...



...and I cherish that.



...and I can't wait to see him again.



We all have something...

...some memory of Grandma Great that means more to us than others.  Something that when we see, hear, taste or smell it, we think of her.



...for Aubrey, it is a new box of crayons with their points still in tact.


I asked Aubrey if she wanted to say something at the cemetery service.  She said no, but she did have something she was working on.  She wanted to keep it a secret until we were all gathered together. 


...so when she hid out in the basement at the farm for several hours, I knew she was doing something important to her that would impact us all. 



At the end of the service, Aubrey asked to say something and then she explained that Grandma Great had always told her that as a child her older sister always got the new crayons and she got the left-overs, you know the ones that are broken, paper ripped, points long gone.


That's why Grandma bought herself a box of brand new crayons when she moved to Utah. Crayola crayons, with the pointiest points ever, and that box of crayons is still sitting on her shelf, the cellophane wrapping carefully guarding every Razzmatazz pink all the way to the brightest Blue Violet and Caribbean Green to  Electric Lime, even the Fuchsia and Fuzzy Wuzzy are still standing at attention with their wrappers still in tact. 

At the conclusion of mother's service, Aubrey brought out a wreath brightly colored with beautiful, pointy crayons glued to the yellow ribbon. 


...and she explained how she always thinks of Grandma when she sees a new box of crayons.

Yes...we all have something that reminds us of her and for Aubrey it's brand new crayons, for Lauren it's Monday nights and The Bachelor and who doesn't think of her when they taste fried chicken.


She may have left us to be with daddy, but there is still a lot of her right here with us...


...and that's another happy thought.

We celebrate...

a lot in our family...




We love to be together and cheer one another along.  We have celebrated each birth of our grandchildren with a flurry of quilts, food and love, but when Emry was born, there was even more to celebrate....

Mike and Erin had made a decision.  It was a big one, an important, life changing decision.  After years of heartache, blessings and prayers their attempts to have a baby had failed and they decided to adopt.  We were excited they had made this decision.  We didn't care how our grandchildren came into the family...they were ours to be celebrated forever.




...then the plan changed...




Matthew and I had taken several family members to Smith-Moorehouse for a camp out.  Mike called that afternoon and casually mentioned he and Erin wanted to come up for s'mores, but wouldn't be spending the night.  I was excited to have them come, even if it was just for dessert.




...and so it was as the moon rose over the glistening lake, nestled among the pines and quakies, the campfire giving a beautiful glow to our faces...




...that they shared the news...




...on the day they were to give their $1000 non-refundable deposit to the adoption agency, Erin and Mike had their first ultra-sound, confirming their news...




...Emry was coming to be with us.




...so on the day of her birth, there was not just a sigh of relief that she was healthy and beautiful, there was gratitude our prayers had been answered in the form of a little pink bundle with Erin's beautiful smile and Mike's cute freckles scattered across her nose(actually the freckles came later, but the first time I held her I just knew she would have sunshine kisses on her rosy cheeks someday).




Sitting around the campfire as they told us the news, Matthew had to hush me.  He was concerned the other campers would think we were being attacked by the way I was screaming...and so I got it under control.  It wasn't until dawn the next morning I realized I had s'mores smeared on my face and throughout my hair from the excitement the night before.




Yes, Emry, it took years for you to make your appearance...




...but you were definitely worth the wait.

I love you more!

As the sun descended...

...rising into someone else's dawn, I sat at the water's edge and marveled at the beauty of a prairie sunset.  The willow remembered the wind as it swayed and the waves chased across the pond. 

The day had seen the fulfillment of a promised made many years ago to Daddy.  I had watched over Mother, cared for her, loved her and now I had brought her home to him.  




Dean commented at the cemetery that she had often mentioned how much she missed Daddy's touch.  It was important, he felt, for her to be close as possible to him.  So when Dean and Matthew went to the cemetery in the early morning to open the earth for her, they dug until they hit the top of Daddy's vault...


...as close as possible.




...and sitting there at the end of the day, a surprise, a wonderful, unexpected gift...




...it suddenly dawned on me that they were together, watching the same sunset as I, on the hill from which you can pick out the farm they both loved on the horizon...


...together again for the first time in over eight years...




...and then it happened, I pictured Daddy taking Mother's hand and I heard, as clearly as if they were sitting right there beside me...




...giggling...




...they were both happy.

...love you more.

I started...

...to blog several times lately...


...but nothing...


...not a thought...


...just nothing.  I guess sometimes even I have thoughts and words too private to share.


...then yesterday I carried her downstairs and set her on the kitchen table with all the other "stuff" I'm taking to KS. 


As I took her down from the shelf in her room, I realized it was the last time she would be in our home, the last time she would be present, even if she was just in an urn.


...and it kind of messed me up.


Yesterday was bad and today there are still side effects, but I'm excited to see Dean...


...and that's a happy thought.