On My Mind

The last time my mother, and father, came to my home in Idaho (722 N Georgia, Caldwell) was just after Christmas 1978. Mama played for me and my friend Joyce to sing at a two-stake holiday dance at the Caldwell Stake Center. The evening was kind of a big deal. But we were pretty much a big deal, too, when we sang.

Whenever we practiced, my mother thought I took the tempo too fast--on just about everything--and she told me so, of course. She tried to slow us down, and, if you knew my mother, you would know she slowed us down. Some, anyway. My mother was the very best accompanist I've ever known, by the way, and I was so glad to have her play for us. She made that trip up to Idaho just for me.

It was very cold that year, and my dad didn't do well in the cold. Very cold. He was a worry to my mother, but she was the one who died nine months later.

I watched her as she sat in my house, folding my laundry. At least that's what I wrote in a poem about her dying. She was folding socks.

I saw how tired she looked. Or I like to think I did. But I was likely just like my dad, who did not see it, I suppose. Whatever he needed from her, she gave. As always. You can tell I'm feeling critical of him about it, but I know I shouldn't. Besides, she loved him.

I went down to Utah three times the next year, 1979, the year of my last pregnancy. My journal tells of a busy year for me, six children, singing here and there, teaching at church, going to school, and running every chance I got for as long as I could do it. Not always feeling good.

Oh yes, and a husband. Once I wrote of how kind he was to me. Thank goodness I wrote it.

The last of those three visits was on my birthday. From my journal:
2 September 1979, my birthday. Am spending it in Bountiful with my parents. My mother had a heart attack several weeks ago, and I have wanted to come down to see her & my dad. Wayne's parents bought a plane ticket for me. I left all my kids at home with their dad. So this visit is a quiet one. My mother is not very well, but it is hard to make her stay inactive--and Daddy makes it impossible. She is giving a party tomorrow for my birthday. I wish she weren't--but she is.

That was the last time I saw her alive. I remember we went to Dick's market together, probably the day before the party. I expected she would walk around with me, using the grocery cart to lean on. She didn't. She sat down on some bags of salt or dog food and waited. Not like her.

She took me to dinner one night. And she did not eat. Not like her.

Clearly, she was not doing well. I could see it. I remember thinking about it. And yet I did not expect her to die.

It's coming up on 32 years now.