This morning, I read through some of the letters and cards my mother saved. One day, when we lived far apart, I mailed a Valentine’s Day card to my mother that said, “Lately I’ve been missing you more…and enjoying it less!” That just about sums up my feeling these days, too. In fact, every day since that tragic day my mother was killed by a tractor-trailer truck I could say, “I missed you today.” I know you, my dear reader, understand how it feels to miss a loved one; whether they are gone for the day or dead and buried until that beautiful resurrection morning. I find it comforting to read the letters my mother and I exchanged through the years. It reminds me of how much love and joy we had.
“Never Alone,” from the 1970 album “Sometime Soon,” recorded at Chapel Records by the Vesper Trio (Geri Gaines, Jean Ketzner, and Jeanne Mannes), written by Earl C. Heidelberg, copyright 1957 by Singspiration, Inc. Brad Braley, organist. The brief solo is sung by my mother.
Every day should feel like Valentine’s Day. Love is so very important in one’s life. To feel love and to give love is comforting and healing. It makes one complete. My mother made me feel loved and special every day. For that matter, she made everyone who met her feel loved and special. My mother taught me to be kind to people, yes, even strangers. We are all part of the same human family, created by the same God. The Bible is God’s love letter to us. In the Bible, Jesus said to do unto others as you would have them do to you. This is called the Golden Rule.
Even though I miss my mother, I have family and friends who need my love, as I need theirs. There is One who loves beyond all measure, and that is Jesus Christ who gave His own dear life for each one of us. He is waiting to hear from me and from you. I don’t want Jesus to have to say, “I missed you today.” He is just a prayer away, waiting with love. You are never alone!
I love summer! When I was a child summer held a special freedom. As much as I loved school, it was enjoyable to have more time for play and especially more time with my family. There were more trips to the beach, various parks including Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Zoo, the swimming pool at Rocketdyne Park, and the mountains. On a fine summer’s day, there was more time to walk barefoot in the grass, play on our swing set in the back yard, go for bike rides, extra trips to the library, and night time star gazing through our father’s telescope. I would not trade our camping trips out under the starry night skies for all the palaces in the world.
Yes, it was too hot sometimes. If I complained about the heat, my mother would remind me the summer sun was needed to make the gardens and crops grow. I noticed the perfume of the roses, honeysuckle, and other flowers was much stronger on a hot summer day. We didn’t have air conditioning in our home, so we threw open the windows for the cool, fresh air of night and early morning. Often it was chilly enough for a summer-weight blanket on the bed. As the temperature began to rise mid-morning, we closed the windows and drew the drapes and curtains to hold some of the cooler air inside. Drawing the drapes also kept the summer sunshine from heating the house even more. We also used electric fans to make a cooling breeze inside. We splashed cold water on our faces and ate fruit popsicles. The most languid days of summer were spent trying to stay cool and reading books.
Sometimes, my father would say, “Who wants ice cream?” On the way to 31 Flavors, my brother and I would laughingly say, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” It was fun to look at all the flavors and choose a special one. The frozen sweet cream was good to the last honeyed taste. When it was hotter than hot, we headed for the swimming pool, the beach, or even our kiddie pool under a shade tree in the back yard. At the beach, the cool Pacific Ocean waters of Southern California made us shiver. Then the hot sunshine felt good as we warmed up for the next plunge under a cooling wave.
Summer’s charms also brought the 4th of July fireworks and sparklers, Vacation Bible School, lemonade, guessing cloud shapes in the sky, strawberries galore, corn on the cob, watermelon, and a whole week at summer camp. Without the heat of summer there would be no juicy peaches. There were road trips to visit my grandparents where the leisurely days turned into weeks of memories to last a lifetime. Then, all too soon, it was time for back-to-school shopping and earlier bedtimes. I learned how important it was to embrace each day.
These days, I love the soft glow of the golden hour. As dusk steals over the land, fireflies come out to play. Soon the twinkling of the fireflies is replaced by the lights of a starry night sky, like diamonds sparkling against a backdrop of black velvet. And come August, the crickets will begin their chirping song. Before long, the geese will begin their long flight south from Canada, honking encouragement to each other as they travel their aery courses. I’m reminded to embrace these remaining days and nights of summer, for all too soon, glorious autumn will make her majestic appearance. Can the cold of winter be far behind?
But sweeter than ice cream on a hot summer’s day, or the perfume of roses wafted on summer breezes, or firefly dances at dusk, is the sweet fragrance of forgiveness. Forgiveness is a way to keep the honeyed sweetness of summer all year long. My mother believed forgiveness was the greatest gift one could give or receive. Forgiveness cools the searing heat of anger and hurt. Forgiveness leaves a sweet, honeyed taste to one’s life. Forgiveness is the bright light of forever. Forgiveness is the most powerful thing one can do.
Love and forgiveness were tightly woven together in my mother’s life and teachings. These ideals cannot be separated. To love is to forgive. How can I ever forget these principles? But I do forget sometimes.
Jesus Christ willingly gave His life on the cross so we could be ransomed, forgiven, and saved from destruction. Think about it! The King of the Universe wants to forgive us no matter how much we have hurt Him. How important is it to forgive others? In Matthew 6: 14-15, Jesus said, “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” The Greek word for trespasses is paraptōmata. It means: a falling away, lapse, slip, false step, error, trespass, transgression, or sin.
I love the poetry of George Marion McClellan. He was born in Tennessee in September 29, 1860, seven months before the start of the American Civil War. There is no record to indicate whether McClellan was born to slave or free parents; however, later he was able to go to college, where he earned a total of three degrees. McClellan was a minister, educator, writer, poet, school chaplain, and high school principal among other things before he died in 1934. Here is one of my favorite poems he wrote:
Christ washed the feet of Judas! The dark and evil passions of his soul, His secret plot, and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.
Christ washed the feet of Judas! Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, His bargain with the priest, and more than this, In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.
Christ washed the feet of Judas! And so ineffable his love ’twas meet, That pity fill his great forgiving heart, And tenderly to wash the traitor’s feet, Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.
Christ washed the feet of Judas! And thus a girded servant, self-abased, Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.
And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: Christ washed the feet of Judas.
McClellan wrote these lines after suffering the humiliation of being “forcibly evicted from a train in Alabama” in 1884, because he was African-American. He felt such hatred for those who shamefully abused him. It frightened him. Eventually he began to pray to have the hatred removed, leading him to forgive those who hurt him. He later wrote “all feeling of hatred for any human being left me forever.” Then McClellan was inspired to write the poem, The Feet of Judas.
Here we see Jesus humbly wash the dirty feet of his betrayer, as “…in love he stooped and washed his feet.” The pure skin of Jesus touched, caressed, and sought to cleanse the impure skin of Judas’ feet. Yes, Judas’ “sordidness complete…Yet all his lurking sin was bare” to Jesus in the borrowed upper room. The theme of forgiveness is expressed by the line “And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.” This forgiveness in the poem is extended even to political matters, conveyed by the heartbreaking lines which said, “And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, Whate’er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh heart! This one thing should not be forgot, Christ washed the feet of Judas!”
To have a forgiving spirit, even when the other person isn’t sorry, is to be like Jesus. McClellan’s forgiveness gave him freedom in a way nothing else could give him. Forgiveness frees the one who has been hurt. It removes toxicity from one’s life and makes room for good things to happen, sometimes in surprising ways. Forgiveness can touch other people’s lives like ripples in a pond, spreading goodness far abroad. Forgiveness is the most powerful thing one can do. Forgive to be like Jesus and to be forgiven.
I believe in love and forgiveness.
Take care,
Charlyne
*The Feet of Judas, from Poems, by George Marion McClellan.
Robins’ nest and eggs in the old Lilac bush, 2020, Virginia.
It’s Valentine’s Day and love is in the air. Through the ages there have been many types and definitions of love, including the affection of friendship, romantic love, the love within a family, and Agape love. Agape (pronounced ah gah pay) is an unselfish love; such love sacrifices for the good others. I love watching birds making a nest for their babies. It takes a lot of work to find the materials and weave them into a home. They carefully tend the eggs, keeping them warm until the babies hatch from the eggs. Then the real work begins as the parents take turns bringing food to the growing babies. Eventually the baby birds are plumper and sleeker than their slightly ragged looking parents. I love to see how the parents take such good care of their babies.
Flowers for my mother, family photo archives.
Good parents are unselfish, often sacrificing sleep, time, and money, among many other things, for the sake of their babies and growing children. I know my mother made many sacrifices for me. One of the times I sent my mother flowers, I included a note expressing my thankfulness for her and the sacrifices she made through the years. She wrote back to me: “Thank you for the sweet note and lovely flowers and remember: anything that was ever done for my children was never a sacrifice in my book…you were and are my life. My calling, if you will.” It was stunning to know I was her calling in life!
My mother and father, California.
My parents loved to sing together around the home, especially favorite love songs. They were there for each other through thick and thin. Their unselfish love for each other spilled over into all our lives. I still miss my mother, but on this Valentine’s Day, I want to remember: love endures, love sacrifices, love seeks the very best for someone else, and love is here to stay. My mother’s love showed me God’s love. She taught me I was never alone because I always had the perfect love of my Heavenly Father. One of the songs my mother recorded with the Vesper Trio was, “Never Alone,” by E. C. Heidelberg, copyright 1957 by Singspiration, Inc. Remember, you are never alone. God’s love is here to stay!
You can hear this lovely song.My mother’s roses, family photo archives.
How do you spell love? I know how I spell love. Words can be cheap, but I say real love is spelled by caring actions, self-sacrifice, and endurance.
Not all California pioneers came for gold. A series of letters written by my great-great-grandfather, gives a glimpse into the life of one early California pioneer. In 1853, two-and-a-half years after California became a State, John M. Battée age 25, single and alone, traveled with his few possessions in a carpet bag from Ohio to New York then west via the perils of the Panama Isthmus, finishing his journey on the Pacific Mail Steam Ship Company steamer the John L. Stephens bound for San Francisco. From humble beginnings as a ranch hand, he saved his money, lived frugally (only smoking his pipe on Sundays), eventually buying his own land in San Jose, California. He went on to help establish a bank in San Jose, was elected a member of the board of county supervisors and was instrumental in facilitating the road to the Lick Observatory on the summit of Mount Hamilton, some 25 miles east of San Jose. What were the secrets of his success?
Pacific Mail Steam Ship Company’s steamer John L. Stephens, ca. 1855, print, The Huntington Library.
In an age when many people have lost their hope, happiness, and direction in life, John’s story, as found in his letters home, contains some of the secrets of his success: hard work, the love of family, braving loneliness, delayed gratification, and making the world a better place for others. He also revealed what he thought was the greatest source of happiness.
The eldest of nine children, John wrote long letters to his parents and siblings back home on the farm in Ohio. Seventeen of his original letters were saved and numbered by his descendants, transcribed, and donated to the History San Jose Research Library and Archives. The first three letters have been lost to history. I’ve had copies of the other seventeen letters for a number of years, reading them, and enjoying the company of an ancestor I never met. Who wouldn’t love a man who wrote, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “…but the Girls, Dear Creatures they perhaps know of no one to complain to but there is 1 [sic] who careth for them and will listen to their every cry only envelop them and direct to John M. Battée, San Jose, California” (Battée Letter No. 5 1853). He wrote these letters while seated on a bag of bran in a rough bunkhouse, with “an unplained board” for a desk (Battée Letter No. 6 1853), where he delineates his few possessions, besides what he was wearing, of “3 shirts, 1 pair of pants & carpet bag…my watch with a Jews harp…another pair of pants, 1 shirt & a hat…my boots, socks and the box that serves for keeping together my tobacco, pipe, pens, paper, ink, needles, thread, razor and strop knives, letters, etc.” (Battée Letter No. 6 1853).
My French Company tapestry bag (made in California), 2021, family photo archives. It’s hard to imagine all my things in this bag, as it measures 18 inches x 10 1/2 inches x 9 inches.
While John was not among those who came seeking a dear treasure in the gold mines, his letters make clear what was dear to his heart – farming and family. Scattered throughout his letters are references to the prices of crops and livestock. “…barley is worth 2 ½ cts per pound, beef by wholesale 20 cts, hogs live 16 to 30 cts per pound, cows average $175, 1 yoke oxen $225 average, horses from $100 to $500, sheep $10, turkeys from 3 to $18 apiece, chickens half grown $1” (Battée Letter No. 5 1853).
In the hills of California, 2012, family photo archives.
In his messages to home, John sometimes mentioned crimes in San Jose and the surrounding area. “Murders and roberries [sic] are as prevalent as ever…” (Battée Letter No.7 1854), as well as “There is still about the usual amount of Stealing, Gambling, Cheating and Lying &c &c [sic]” (Battée Letter No. 18 1858). During the mid-to-late 1800s, while Old West gangs and criminals like Billy the Kid, the James Younger Gang, the Dalton Gang, the Joaquin Murrieta Gang, and many others were robbing, terrorizing, maiming, and killing, my great-great-grandfather John M. Battée was toiling long days with a McCormick’s reaper, threshing grain, herding cattle, drilling wells with a partner despite an injured hand, and any other ranching and farming jobs he could do, carefully saving his wages for the day he could buy his own land. Many of the criminals were cut down in the prime of life, proving a life of crime rarely pays, while John built up a life of good works which followed him long after he was gone.
Rather than trying to get rich quickly, John was willing to work hard and wait. In The Marshmallow Test, Why Self-Control Is the Engine of Success, by Walter Mischel, PhD, decades of research and careful study has shown the ability to delay gratification in childhood has been a great predictor of future success and well-being (Mischel 2014). It’s interesting to note this can be a natural gift, but self-control can be taught or learned at any stage of life (Mischel 2014). Only one time, when work was not as plentiful, did John finally try his hand at gold mining, but he didn’t stay long, as he made about the same amount of money in the mines as he did as a ranch hand. Even more important, farming was in John’s blood. He loved the soil of the earth and all the things it could grow. His family line had been farming ever since the first Battée male immigrated from England to Maryland in 1683.
Rich California soil, 2011, family photo archives.
In his letters, John mentioned some of the local amusements, such as “circuses Panoramas &c [sic]…bull and bear fight…” (Battée Letter No. 9 1854) and “Balls, parties…Singing Schools Debating clubs…and all the known jokes and tricks belonging to every class of the human species…” (Battée Letter No. 14 1855). The leisure activities John enjoyed included “…I have read some few histories some novels and have nearly averaged one newspaper a week, but the fourth of July nor Christmas have not averaged me a roast turkey nor frolic nor fun…” (Battée Letter No. 6 1853). According to John’s letters, he worked every day of the year but Sundays and a few holidays.
In the matter of character, twenty-six-year-old John counseled his seventeen year-old brother Phillip with these words in a letter home: “…by all means let your understanding, patience, perseverance, attention, manliness, and kindness at home keep pace with your years…to associate with those who do their duty, know the right and act propperly [sic], for you the choice of friends, the cultivation of your new manners, and the way you spend your time now, depend your future success and consequently your happiness.” (Battée Letter No. 10 1854).
California grasses, 2012, family photo archives.
John wrote the climate was so much better in California than back home in Ohio. “…this country has many, very many advantages over any other I have ever lived in, first it is very healthy there is mention of more deaths and sickness in your last letter than has come to me [sic] knowledge in one year and a half…” (Battée Letter No. 11 1854) and he mentions the abundance of good grass for grazing year round in his part of California, as well as better quality and quantity of fruits and vegetables.
Numerous times, John expressed his longing to see his loved ones back home. In nearly every letter he mentions “…then in six months or a year if I have no bad luck I shall want to pay you a visit…” (Battée Letter No. 12 1855). In another letter, John writes a bit of poetry with these lines:
“After three long ‘roving years
how sweet it is to come
To the dwelling place of early youth
In thought to travel home.” (Battée Letter No. 15 1856)
He follows this verse with, “Yes Dear Kindred there is pleasure in thinking of home and friends…” (Battée Letter No. 15 1856). In a letter addressed to “Dear Father,” John writes “I have all ready [sic] been separated from You longer than I ever intended…And when I think or speak or write of home, or of those who are inseperably [sic] connected with it, my heart swells as it does not at any other sound” (Battée Letter No. 17 1857). Obviously, John endured loneliness, and it isn’t clear from his letters whether he ever was able to visit his family at home in Ohio.
Copies of J. M. Battée legal documents, 1857 – 1897, History San Jose Research Library.
John was willing to help others. The first time John mentions the loan of his money, was in April 1857, at age 29, when he wrote “…I have not collected more than one third of what was oweing [sic] to me a year ago But the prospect is very fair for as much more…at any rate I think it is well secured and it is bringing two and a half per cent a month…” (Battée Letter No. 18 1857). Of course, John wanted his hard-earned money back. Three months later, John filed the first lawsuit, of what was to be over half a dozen legal actions through the years, to recover money legally owed to him. This lawsuit was filed in the District Court of the Third Judicial District, County of Santa Clara in California. The defendant was William Aram, who had borrowed $1,900.00 (over $63,000.00 in today’s money) from John and signed a promissory note along with William’s brother on March 1, 1856. Aram had paid part, but not all, of the debt. As the case made its way through the court system, the money still owed to John increased due to accumulated interest, court costs and fees. In 1858, District Judge Craven P. Hester issued a judgment in favor of John M. Battée (Battée vs. Aram 1858).
Battée Letter No. 5, 1853, History San Jose Research Library.
It’s interesting to note there are no saved letters from the years of 1860-1865, which mostly coincides with the American Civil War period. Whether the letters were lost to history, or whether John didn’t write during those years, it would have been interesting to read his perspective on the war. At some point, he joined the Republican party, and as such, he would have been against slavery. In September of 1864, his twenty-seven-year-old brother, Sgt. Phillip Battée, was killed fighting down in Georgia. Phillip lay surrounded by the deep red hues of the spilled currency of war in a peach orchard, a sad end to a young man who loved family and farming. He was killed by a soldier defending his home, while Phillip died trying to end slavery and to save the nation. After a hasty burial under the tree where Phillip fell, he was later exhumed and moved first to a local cemetery, than exhumed again and moved to the Marietta National Cemetery. Seven and a half years later, John named his baby son Phillip in honor of his dear brother.
My great-great grandmother Clara McKean Battée, California, no date, family photo archives.
John’s saved letters end in 1866 at the age of 38, about six months before he married my great-great grandmother – a young woman who had moved from Ohio to Oregon, finally settling in California. His wedding was held after he had purchased and improved his own farm. John’s life was not without sadness. Two babies died in infancy. His darling Clara died during childbirth leaving him with six children, including the newborn boy who survived his mother’s death. Through frugality and wise investing, John went on to own several large farms in California, not only in Santa Clara County, but also in the Salinas Valley.
Farmers Union Building, 1874, photograph, History San Jose Research Library.
One of John’s accomplishments to make things better for others was to help co-found a bank. The Farmers’ Union in San Jose was part bank and part store, serving farmers in the area. It was established in May of 1874 by 46-year-old John and some other San Jose leaders, with “capital stock of $100,000” (Sawyer 1922). The bank “was a one-stop shop for the agricultural families in then-tiny San Jose. It was a bank, as well as a hardware and supply store. ‘You could get everything there, even a tractor,’ said former San Jose Mayor Tom McEnery…” (Pizzaro 2016). I visited the building in 2013 and July 2021. The downstairs portion of the building is a restaurant and bar by the same name of “The Farmers Union.” While John never became wealthy from this enterprise, he left a lasting legacy.
In the 1870s, while in his forties, John was elected to four two-year terms on the Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors. He served from 1870 to 1878 (Foote 1888). Sometimes he was a member, and sometimes he was the Chairman (John M. Battée obituary 1921). In his capacity as a member of the Board of Supervisors, John was able to arrange for a road to be built to the top of Mount Hamilton where James Lick wanted to build an observatory. “This brief sketch of the work on this famous road gives but an imperfect idea of the thousand obstacles that were thrust in the path of enterprise. There were a number of people in the community who could see no advantage in the improvement, and were constantly raising objections, and trying to thwart the work…Probably the most earnest and untiring friend of the road was Supervisor J. M. Battée, chairman of the road committee. To his devotion to the cause is due, more than to any other man, the successful termination of the great work that has attracted the attention of the scientific world to the summit of Mount Hamilton” (Foote 1888). The Lick Observatory, constructed between 1876 and 1887, was a major feat at the time, made possible by the road leading to the summit. “The greatest work of man in Santa Clara County and San Jose’s greatest asset is the Lick Observatory on the summit of Mt. Hamilton, which is provided with the best and most complete astronomical appliances in the world” (Sawyer 1922).
My great-grandfather Phillip (front, center, seated), my mother as a child in sweater and collar (with small girl standing in front of her), and my grandfather with mustache (back row, second from left), California, 1946, family photo archives.
After he died at age 93, his obituary had all the highlights, but it also said this: “To the few pioneers remaining who knew Mr. Battée, he is remembered as a man who was modest, plain in appearance and speech, determined, honest in all his dealings and one of the most far-sighted and efficient county officials of the closing quarter of the past century” (John M. Battée obituary 1921). John’s characteristics of hard work, “modest, plain in…speech, determined, honest in all his dealings” could also describe my great-grandfather Phillip, my grandfather, and my mother. John M. Battée passed along these traits by word and deed, with each generation of my family continuing his inheritance which is better than gold.
Better than Gold, California, 2012, family photo archives.
In a letter to his mother, John wrote these most important words, words which tell much about the man and his character: “And I find the greatest source of happiness is to make those happy with whom we come in contact or with whom we are connected, that it is in giving pleasure we receive it with interest. if [sic] all would go upon that principle how many bitter words, heart burnings and estrangements would never have been known, sorrow would be banished from many a heart that is now burning and marking its progress on the careworn and furrowed countenance of its possessor, happiness is also a great promoter of health, therefor [sic] it is highly necessary to consider its sources and teach them, as well as to practice, especially to the Young should it be taught that for every reasonable sacrifice they make, and every benefit they confer only adds to their own enjoyment…” (Battée Letter No. 17 1857).
I believe in love and forgiveness.
Take care,
Charlyne
***Special thanks to Cate Mills, Curator of Library & Archives at the History San Jose Research Library, as well as her volunteer assistant, Nadine Nelson, who did most of the database searching. It was exciting to see my great-great grandfather’s handwriting in copies of his original letters home. Before this, I had typed copies of his letters passed along in the family.
***Special thanks to Steve Rich, former schoolmate, friend, and attorney who read my research paper, read my great-great grandfather’s legal documents, advised me about John’s court cases, and said, “He was a smart man.”
Works Cited
Battée, John M. Letters Home. 1853 – 1866. Letters 4 – 20 of John M. Battée Letters. History San Jose Research Library, San Jose, California.
Battée, J.M. v. Aram, William, 1160 (District Court of the Third Judicial District 1858).
Foote, H S. Pen Pictures from the Garden of the World or Santa Clara County, California. The Lewis Publishing Company, 1888.
John M. Battée obituary. “Supervisor of ’70 Buried by Garden City Odd Fellows.” San Jose Mercury-Herald, November 3, 1921.
Mischel, Walter, PhD. The Marshmallow Test, Why Self-Control Is the Engine of Success. Little, Brown and Company, Hachette Book Group, 2014.
Pacific Mail Steam Ship Company’s Steamer John L. Stephens, ca. 1855, print, The Huntington Library. Web. 12 September 2021.
With my brother Richard and our mother at Malibu, California.
The other day as I was driving, I saw an interesting slogan on an 18-wheeler. Of course, I couldn’t take a picture while I was driving, after all I advocate for highway safety! Blazoned across the trailer in huge letters the message said: “Stay the course – you will see them again.” All the way home, I thought about those words. I believe those words with all my heart. “Stay the course” is a fine phrase for everything good and worthwhile. While my mother did not say those exact words, she exhibited this kind of fidelity to her core beliefs and practices in life. My mother encouraged me to be true to the principles and virtues she hoped I would live. She wanted me to “stay the course.” My mother wasn’t perfect, no one is, but she tried to be the best she could be. The more I think about my mother’s values, the more I want to be like her. As a small child, I wanted to be just like her. I thought she was the most beautiful mother in the world. To me, she was loving, glamorous, and talented. She seemed to know everything.
With my brother Richard and our father, Malibu, California.
It was important to my mother that our family matched as far as the most important values and standards in life such as love, kindness, respect, compassion, forgiveness, honesty, gratitude, responsibility, generosity, and much more. On a lighter note, on rare occasions she made us matching outfits. We loved it! It showed the world we belonged together. One year, she sewed us outfits for fourth of July. The fabric had red and blue fireworks-style starbursts on a white background. We wore them at the beach, for picnics, and to watch the 4th of July fireworks. My mother loved to sew. I loved to watch her sew. It seemed to me each garment she made was stitched together with love, much like our family was stitched together with love. I learned some rips, tears, and shreds in the fabric could be stitched back together with care and love. There are some important concepts in sewing. For one thing, in order to complete a garment, one must follow the directions and the pattern, as well as to “stay the course”.
My mother’s sewing machine.
I have my mother’s sewing machine, along with her sewing things. I don’t know what happened to her first sewing machine, but knowing her, she probably passed it along to someone who could use it, as it was still in good working order. She not only kept our home in good order, but she took care to maintain things like sewing machines. Now, I use my mother’s sewing machine, grateful she took the time to clean and oil it regularly. It still sews beautifully because she was devoted to “stay the course.”
The owner’s manual, or instruction book, for my mother’s sewing machine.
The owner’s manual has some important information. The introduction asks the new owner to read the booklet’s instructions for the best sewing experience and to save money on needless, preventable repairs. There are important sections on setting up the sewing machine, how to properly control various tensions, as well as cleaning and maintenance. My mother was faithful in reading everything. She was faithful to follow the instructions for cleaning and maintenance. It’s why her sewing machine still works well.
The Vogue Americana Oscar de la Renta sewing pattern my mother used to make a high school special occasion dress for me.
After she died, I found this pattern in my mother’s things. I remember my mother carefully fitting and pinning the pieces to the pressed pale pink brocade fabric she and I had chosen. All the pattern pieces needed to fit on the fabric before cutting it. My mother believed in the adage of “waste not, want not.”
My mother’s measuring tape.
Of course, my mother was careful to get all the measurements before she bought a sewing pattern. While she took my measurements, my mother would remind me of the most important measurements: the measurements of a good character. She never missed an opportunity to make a life lesson come alive. She said it in a caring way. It made me want to be a better person. I was happy she cared so much.
The sewing guide, or instructions.
It’s important to follow the instructions included in the pattern. The instructions show the various ways to efficiently lay out the pattern pieces on different widths of fabric, as well as which pieces to sew together and the order in which to sew them. If I don’t follow these directions, I may have a mess instead of a masterpiece.
My mother’s sewing pins.
It was important the pins were sharp so they wouldn’t tear the tissue paper or ruin the fabric as it pierced through the layers of delicate paper and cloth. Once all the pattern pieces were pinned exactly where they should be, it was time to carefully cut out the fabric pieces to make the garment. Significantly, the lines of the pattern pieces needed to be followed while cutting them or there would be a gap, and the whole project could be ruined. It was necessary to “stay the course.”
My mother’s scissors were quite sharp.
Sharp scissors are a must so the edges of the fabric are not ragged. Sometimes my mother used pinking shears, but those were also sharp. It’s easier to cut with a sharp instrument. Then it’s time to pin the pieces of fabric together according to the directions. Good, strong thread is important when sewing the garment pieces together. My mother usually sewed French seams. She reinforced the stress points by double or triple sewing over those areas so they wouldn’t tear. My mother wanted the garment to “stay the course.” Could it be I need reinforcements for my stress points?
My mother (left in the handmade Oscar de la Renta dress), ready to sing for a wedding accompanied by her friend Geri playing the organ, California.
I felt like a million dollars when I wore the finished dress to my special event. Later my mother wore the dress, too. It was well made. It lasted for many special occasions, including church. Sewing is a lot like life. If I follow the best directions, I will have a pretty good life. Sure, there will be some things to cut or pierce – it can hurt. But God can take those things and make something beautiful, good, and strong from it, if I let Him…if I “stay the course.”
My French curve.
The French curve was invented by a mathematician. It’s used for drafting or in fashion design. The French curve helps me make needed adjustments to make a pattern fit better. It smooths a curve, making it perfect. When life seems to have thrown me a curve, I’m reminded it can be smoothed and turned into something beautiful. I’m thankful for all the lessons my mother taught me just in this one area of life – sewing!
My first instruction manual – the Bible.
My parents gave me my first Bible when I was three and a half years old. It was a lovely cream hue. I remember sitting in church, leafing through the pages when the adults were looking up verses. This was before I could read, but I wanted to be like my mother. I loved to look at the pictures. My favorite was the color picture of David, the shepherd boy and Goliath, the soldier giant. My mother read this story to me and my brother often. She told us God could help us whenever we were facing giants: the giants of temptation, the giants of mean people, as well as any difficulty in life. My mother wanted us to “stay the course.”
I had a piece of paper marking this passage.
It’s been many years since I used my childhood Bible. It was falling apart, and I got another Bible to use. I’m actually on my fourth Bible right now. It’s not because I’m careless with Bibles, but rather I read them so much. I pulled out my first Bible to look it over. I had marked two places with torn strips of lined school paper. The first place was Proverbs 3:5-6 (as written on the paper). It says this: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.” I love the rich language of the early 1600s English words. I’m sure this was a memory text I learned, as was the other place I had marked with a strip of paper: Proverbs 19:20 says, “Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest be wise in thy latter end.” These verses underscore the importance of paying attention to instruction in order to be wise and to “stay the course.” It ensures a beautiful outcome.
My mother’s “Happy Home” needle book.
I not only have my mother’s vintage needle book (pictured above), but I also have my grandmother’s very vintage needle book. My needle book was given to me by my insurance agent when I signed up for auto insurance at the age of 16. It’s still in good shape, despite being used so much. Sometimes things tear or rip. Then it’s time to bring out needle and thread to do some mending. If carefully mended, it can look like new again. My mother likened mending to the concept of forgiveness. In Matthew 18:35, Jesus discusses the principle of forgiving from the heart. Forgiveness mends the tear or rip in life. It makes things better than new, because it sets me free. Forgiveness was one of my mother’s most important principles she lived and taught. Forgiveness is forever attached to real love. For a happy home, a happy life, and a happy world, forgiveness is the most powerful thing one can do. “Stay the course!”
A Facebook post asked the question, “Did y’all grow up in affectionate homes where you said I love you often?” I had to answer: “Yes, ‘I love you’ was said all the time by everyone in the family. This tradition goes at least four generations that I know of.” The more I thought about it, the more I realized love and affection go back at least to my great-great-grandfather, according to his letters home, but that’s a story for another time. Someone at church noticed I always said “I love you” along with giving a hug for each of my family members in the foyer. Yes, I grew up in an affectionate home. Some people have riches or fame for a legacy, but the legacy in my family was love and affection. Love and affection are expressed in many ways.
Pressing close to my father.
The expression of love and affection can be as simple as saying “I love you,” or other loving words, whether spoken or written. It can be a hug; it can be an act of kindness and service to another. Love and affection can be expressed by spending time together. Sometimes a gift is a thoughtful expression of love. Love is shown in the sacrifices made for another. Whatever form real love takes, lean in to fully experience it. Too often people are in a hurry and don’t take time for love. In my family, we lingered for love.
Pressing close to my brother.
Romans 12:10 says this, “Be kindly affectioned one to another…” My mother emphasized this in the way we treated each other in our home. She made it a point of how we were to treat others outside of our family, as well. If I said someone had been mean to me at school, my mother impressed the lesson by saying, “We don’t know what kind of home they have.” My mother wanted me to be kind and loving to everyone. Those who did not have a good example of love at home needed kindly affection more than anyone else. My mother’s sympathy for those who were love impoverished influenced me to try to be kinder and more loving to everyone.
My mother, who was pregnant, faced the real possibility of death in this pregnancy. Just in case, she wanted to see her parents one more time, so we drove the nearly 500-mile trip. (Pressing close to Grandpa, with my mother and my brother.)
My mother adored her parents. My father did, as well. I was blessed to have two parents who prioritized family. But even if it was not your family’s experience, you can incorporate kindly affection in your own interactions with others. 1 John 4:19 says we can love others because God first loved us. God is the supreme example of love. When I let God’s love into my heart, I will love others. The daily news reminds me this kind of love is sadly lacking in our world. What the world needs now is a pandemic of kindly affection and love. There’s a song by F. E. Belden I loved to sing in the old hymnal of my childhood, “‘Tis Love that Makes Us Happy.” It may have been written in 1892, but the message still resonates today.
Pressing close to my sister
Because no one knows how long family members and friends will be here, my mother taught me to love and cherish each interaction as though it might be the last time. Sometimes, it is the last time. When my sister and my mother died so close in time to each other, I felt bereft without them. I could never forget those who loved me so much. One of my consolations was knowing I had loved them, pressed close to them, and leaned in for love every chance I got. Another consolation was the hope and promise of seeing them again one day. Their deaths reminded me life was precious, and I needed to love those who remained.
Sheep’s wool from pressing close (2021).
Down the road from my house there is a sheep barn. The surrounding hills provide plenty of grass where the sheep graze. There is a little pullout along the road where the shepherd parks his truck to tend to the sheep. Right where the shepherd parks and opens the gate the sheep press close to the fence to be as near to him as possible. You can see their wool caught along the fence. On this day, the sheep were in a far pasture, but if you look at the upper right corner of the picture, you can see the first sheep who ran to look down at the gate…had the beloved shepherd returned? It reminded me to be on the lookout for my Beloved Shepherd, Jesus Christ, and to press close to Him. Lean in for love. People are not perfect, but God’s love is.
I believe in love, forgiveness, and second chances.
Happy Father’s Day to all the men who touch and inspire the lives of children in a positive way! For Father’s Day weekend, I want to honor and remember the essential man who helped shape my life. My father wasn’t perfect, but he loved our family and sacrificed for us. My father worked most of his vacations to help pay for our Christian education. He never complained about how much we “cost” him, but he unselfishly gave as he promoted our family values and needs above some of his own plans and dreams. He was devoted to our family. My mother had the same values. This kind of unselfish love and devotion leads to reciprocal love and care. It impacts future generations.
George and Jeanne with the author as a baby, Huntington Park, California
Daddy loved being a father. My father was happy to travel from Northern California so his father and siblings could meet me. His mother died too young, before my father was married, so I never knew her, except through pictures, a couple of letters, and the memories of her children. She lived on through her children as they cheerfully lived the values she taught them.
He was adored by his mother.
So often there is an essential woman or two behind a good boy or man, and this was true in my father’s life. His mother, Cora, called him, “My Darling Son.” She adored him, his older brother, and his older sister. She made a happy home for them during the difficult years of the Great Depression. Cora was devoted to her children, and loved them unconditionally. She taught them to cherish family, to do their best, to be loving, helpful, and cheerful. As an added plus, she was a lot of fun!
1930s Cora, Los Angeles, California.
Although his parents were divorced, there were plenty of visits. His father faithfully paid child support for the care of the children, but even child support and his mother working as a nurse was not enough and times were very tight during the Great Depression. My father remembered they had to put cardboard in the bottom of their too-small shoes to cover the holes in the soles until they could save up for new shoes. Later, times were better financially, so when he had his own family, my father made sure we had proper leather shoes with room to grow. Once a week, he also polished all our shoes to a military shine.
My mother and father gently feeding each other wedding cake. They treated each other gently in life, as well.
The other essential woman in my father’s life was my mother. She adored him. He adored her, too. Though life was not always easy, they had a true love story. My mother was devoted to my father and the rest of the family. She was loving and loyal. My mother loved my father unconditionally. Unconditional love freed him to be all he could be. It freed him to love us more. So often people are afraid to love unconditionally. There is fear of vulnerability which might leave one open to being hurt. It’s true, sometimes it does lead to being hurt, but that’s a chance one must be willing to take to find a full, loving life. Only unconditional love awakens and opens the heart of another person. Unconditional love lets in light and love. It’s the kind of love God offers us. One time, while my mother, brother and I were 400 miles away visiting our grandparents, Dad wrote to her: “You have dug down deeper inside me than anyone I know. You are life, happiness, companion…my better half. I love you more each day and year…I’m crazy for you. I miss those wonderful children…Wish you were here, Sweetheart.” Love produces love.
One of my father’s letters to my mother.
My father was working at the coast. It was about five hours away. He was gone for three months. My pregnant mother and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa in Camino. During this period, my father sent informative, descriptive letters in red ink to my mother. In one letter, my father wrote, “Hi Sweetheart…Oh! but it was a beautiful night out. No fog. The stars smiled softly down in the mellow moonlight. The ocean was beautiful. Pure white caps topped the dark blue ocean…kiss [Charlyne] for me.” My father was homesick and unable to get home very often. One of the times my mother sent him a care package, he wrote:
“Hi Honey Pie…Man those cookies and bread are good. Thanks a million Sweetheart. Write back prontoitis [quickly]…Hoping to be together soon. I remain your Rockport correspondent who leaves you with this thought – Dare to act and think for yourself as long as it is right in God’s sight. Lovingly, George”
Another letter ended with, “Bye for now. Wonderful to read your letters. I love you. Heartache Mannes.” In a different letter, he wrote, “Keep in good health and cheerfulness, Lovingly yours, George.” I love what he wrote in this letter: “…let’s let love in…Oh Darling, I love you so much.”
Another of my father’s letters home: “The royal road to success is 95% hard work and 5% ecstasy and dreams.”
Once, when my mother hadn’t written for a while, my father included a penny, as in “a penny for your thoughts!” Ever the optimist, he wrote “Hi Darling, No mail yet. I imagine it’s on its way though.” I don’t know what my mother wrote to him because my father kept very few letters, but one of his letters mentioned mail call at noon when, “There were three letters from you. Sure was happy.” Some final advice was to “Keep fighting with patience and love. These two words all the time win the final victory. Give my Love to Charlyne, the folks; dream of me, I’ll dream of you. Love, Georgie Porgie.”
Early 1930s, Los Angeles. Georgie-Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie…a childhood nickname.
When my father, George, was teased at school with this popular English nursery rhyme, he would answer with a grin saying, “Georgie-Porgie Puddin’ and Pie, kissed the girls and made them cry – more, more, more.” When one is being bullied, it helps to have a sense of humor. It diffuses the situation. Both of our parents taught us to be kind and try to diffuse a situation, but they also said to get away if the situation became dangerous. Not all bullies are content with using only hurtful words. My mother balanced dealing with bullies by saying, “We don’t know what kind of home they have.” She always stuck up for the underdog, even if he or she didn’t deserve it. As a newly licensed sixteen year old, I pulled up to the stop sign down the block from my home, ready to turn right. I noticed a group of younger teens beating up a much younger boy on the opposite corner. I whipped around the corner, pulled to a screeching stop at the sidewalk, and jumped out of the car. “Stop it, stop it,” I called as I ran to break up the slaughter. The boys all ran off. I asked the bloodied child, “Are you alright, can I help you?” He never answered but ran home in another direction. Our family did not tolerate bullying. Life is so much happier when there is kindness, protection, and love.
My father singing in a quartet (second from right), California.
My father loved to sing. He grew up with lots of music in his home. At night, he dreamed entire orchestras in which he was the conductor. He could hear every instrument in his dreams. He sang solos, duets (especially with my mother), in quartets, and in choirs. Both of my parents made sure there was a lot of music in our home. I have fond memories, especially of Sundays discussing the newspaper and classical music with my father. It was exhilarating stuff for a curious child. Good music makes a happy life. Music is love.
My mother kept several heart-shaped picture frames around the house with “just the two of them.”
My mother’s handwriting in green ink spelled out her love for my father, “Hi Darling, Just thought I’d let you know how much I love you…I’d like you to know that your love means more than most anything to me. If I’ve done anything, ever, to hurt you in any way – please forgive me. Please write – we’re lonely & want to hear from you, darling – Love for Always, Jeanne.” My mother was very sensitive to the possibility one could accidently hurt someone’s feelings. She wrote this letter while she, my brother, and I were vacationing with family, and Daddy was working. My mother believed forgiveness smoothed every-day living. Writing A Year of Wearing My Mother’s Perfume has given me time to reflect and discover more about what my mother taught. She taught me more than she knew about love, devotion, sacrifice, generosity, and forgiveness.
My father’s US Forest Service Safety Code book.
When I was three, my father was making maps of the forest around Tahoma at Lake Tahoe for the U.S. Forest Service. During this job, we lived in a tiny forestry cabin with no running water. One September morning, I awakened early as usual. My mother was still asleep, so my father opened the door to escort me to the outhouse. To our surprise, an early snow had fallen during the night. We turned the corner at the back of the cabin. There we saw animal tracks in the snow. My father loved teaching me things from nature and was glad to identify the animal tracks, “Those are bear prints, Charlyne.” I was afraid, and I wanted to go straight back into the cabin. My father had other plans and took the time to show me where the bear had entered the clearing, ambled over, and sniffed around the cabin for something to eat. I noticed the bear had been looking under the window where my bed was! Now I urgently wanted to go back into the cabin. My father said, “The bear didn’t find anything to eat. Let’s follow the bear tracks.” He pointed to the tracks walking away from the cabin and back into the woods. “The bear went somewhere else to look for food. You are safe.” In my short life, my father had always protected me and told me the truth. He had never let me down before. I decided I didn’t need him to check behind the outhouse door, and I went in by myself. Trust is important in a relationship. Without trust, love cannot flourish.
My father reading a fitness magazine. My brother and I are peering from behind.
While looking through some files, I found my father’s track and field ribbons. Dad was involved in running and many field events during his middle school and high school years, including the Track Decathlon at his Los Angeles high school. He held some records in the broad jump. His major in college was Physical Education. In our childhood Dad would take us to Rocketdyne Park to swim. I was so proud of the way he would climb the ladder of the high dive, do a handstand, and walk on his hands all the way to the edge of the diving board, where he would pause for effect, then execute a perfect dive. He was interested in staying healthy and keeping in shape.
Daddy digging in the garden by hand. (Photo taken with the new camera my father gave me for my 18th birthday.)
I don’t think I ever saw my father upset while doing chores, no matter how tiring the job. He was cheerful, often whistling or singing while he worked. He was happy to make things better for us. He was thankful to be able to work. He took pride in his work. In turn, we were proud of his work and very thankful for him. My father and my mother taught us to leave a place (or person) better than we found it. It’s something I continue to practice in life.
Daddy loved to ride bikes with us.
I had a wonderful father who liked to play outdoors with us. He bought a used bicycle for my first bike. He cleaned it and painted it baby blue to match my new doll’s dress, then he taught me to ride it. He bought bicycles for my brother, and later for my sister, as well; buying bigger bikes as we grew. Daddy took us camping under the stars. He played with us at the park. He played catch with us in the back yard.
Daddy with Richard and our new puppy, Canoga Park, California.
Dad loved to spend time with the family. He took us to the beach, the mountains, the desert, and ever so many other places. He played in the snow or water with us. My father loved to read to us, as did my mother. I felt loved because my parents enjoyed spending time with me and my siblings. Spending time together with family makes a happy home. It smooths over the rough spots which inevitably happens from time to time. Our family was the kind of family who said, “I love you” to each other multiple times every day. Heading to work, or school, or the store, etc., “I love you” was always said. “I love you, too,” came the answer with an affectionate hug and smile.
Dad taught Richard how to do mechanical work.
My father learned how to do mechanical things from my mother’s father. Whenever my brother wasn’t available to help him on a vehicle, my father would call me to hand the tools to him. He had everything laid out on his workbench like it was a surgical operating room. From under the hood or under the vehicle, he patiently described the tool if I didn’t know which one it was. Once a week, my father checked all the fluids and tires on our vehicles and washed the car windows and mirrors. My father was generous in all he did. Even when I was an adult, he would take care of my car whenever I visited home, or if he visited me. He taught me to drive; telling me to pretend I had a raw egg between my foot and the gas pedal. He liked everything to be smooth, including driving. My father emphasized highway safety, obedience to the laws and rules, as well as being a courteous driver. He pointed out the big trucks which needed plenty of room. I had no fear around them because my father taught me how to safely coexist on the highways with tractor-trailers.
One of many happy picnics.
One November, after my parents moved to the East Coast, my father wrote a letter to me which included these words: “Dannielle & Mom are looking at old family pictures. I’m surely glad we took lots of pictures of our children. Many happy loving times are brought to mind…” He loved us! It’s important to make happy memories. It’s vital to be loved. Love is what carries one through the difficult times. Dad loved Valentine’s Day because it was a chance to further demonstrate how much he loved his family. We were showered with boxes of candy and cards with thoughtful, sometimes funny sentiments. But every day felt like Valentine’s Day in our house because of love. Dr. Gary Chapman wrote about the five love languages which are words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts (this can be as simple as a flower from the garden), acts of service, and physical touch. I was blessed in my family because all the love languages were used regularly. Love thrives in this kind of healthy environment. If you didn’t experience this, it’s something you can learn and practice. In John 15:12, Jesus said: “This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you.” Tell someone you love them. If there is no one to tell you, I will say it: “I love you.” God’s Agape love, family love, and friendship love are beautiful elements for a happy life.
My parents loved to visit family. Here they are saying goodbye after visiting me.
One week before Thanksgiving, my father called to tell me he had to go to the hospital. My mother was at work, and he didn’t want to disturb her there, but he wanted somebody to know where he was going. He had been feeling weak and tired, most unlike himself. He drove to his doctor’s office. After some tests revealed extremely low iron counts, he was transported by ambulance to the hospital. My father had a series of tests which revealed he had non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Eventually, he was transferred to a large, teaching hospital, where he was diagnosed with two other cancers: Acute Lymphatic Leukemia and Acute Myeloid Leukemia. My mother took a leave of absence from the OB-GYN office where she worked. I had always seen love in action, but now I saw the extraordinary lengths to which love will go and suffer with a loved one. My mother stayed with my father in his hospital room six days and seven nights a week. She encouraged him, loved him, and tended him with every ministration she could. One day a week, she would go home to do laundry, take care of the mail and bills, water the plants, and whatever else needed to be done. Then, she was back by my father’s side, as she slept in a reclining chair. He drew strength and courage from her presence. Meanwhile, early on when he could, my father was going around to other patient’s rooms to encourage them with good cheer, Bible verses, and prayers. He came home for Thanksgiving break. My family and I were there when he came home from the hospital. Evening found my daughters playing the piano while my father sang along.
The next day, I took him to the mall to see the Christmas decorations. As I pushed him along in his wheelchair, no one would look at my father, smile at him, or say hello. It broke my heart. My father was friendly and outgoing to everyone, but now it seemed he was marginalized. It was the first time I noticed that most people look away from heartache. It’s so easy to brighten someone’s day with a smile and a cheery hello. It’s what my mother and father taught our family to do.
Smiles help bolster courage. This is in the early stages of treatment.
Five days before Christmas, my father began his chemotherapy treatments. It was a miserable time to be in the hospital. I sent a letter to my father sharing everything in my heart: I specifically thanked him for all the wonderful things I could remember.
I lived in another State, but in the midst of home duties, job interviews (I was going back to work after staying home to take care of my children), taking some legal-assistant classes, jury duty, getting my notary public license, and working in a library, I called, wrote, and visited all I could.
Just a few months later, in March, my father was losing his will to live. The experimental cancer treatments were ravaging him. I alternated between sadness for my father and cheerfulness as I did the Children’s Story Hour and other duties at the library. Life is full of dichotomies. At the hospital, I walked past my father’s room because I didn’t recognize the patient in the bed. However, it was the right room number, so I went in with an encouraging smile for my father who now looked like Gandhi after a hunger strike. Except for his eyes, Daddy was nearly unrecognizable as my father. He was in a lot of pain. All he wanted was to go home. The hospital said it was too late to go home, he would never survive the trip.
Shortly after I returned home, my father cried over the phone as he told me he was going to be anointed by the pastor the day before his April birthday. In the Bible it says, “And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him,” James 5:15. Notice, it doesn’t explicitly promise physical healing. It says the prayer of faith shall save the sick and sins will be forgiven. Sometimes, God does physically heal a person. But even if he wasn’t physically healed, my father wanted his sins to be forgiven. I prayed with my father. Replacing the telephone receiver, I was suspended between worry, prayers, and hope.
After the phone call, my mother stepped out in the hall to speak with the doctor. He told her Dad’s condition was “a B+.” My mother said, “Please tell me the truth. I’m a nurse and I can see my husband is dying!” The doctor admitted Dad had a few days at most to live. My mother called. “If you want to see your father before he dies, you need to come right away.” We quickly made the arrangements for the day-long trip back to the city to see Dad.
My stomach tightened as the car circled ever higher in the cavernous city parking lot. Would I make it in time? Rushing through the hospital halls, I paused to wipe away some tears, catch my breath, and put a brave smile on my face. I didn’t know what I would find in his room. Relieved to see my father, I kissed his cheek. Dad motioned for some ice chips on his tray. Bending, as over a baby, I spooned clear ice crystals into his swollen, blackened, sore-encrusted mouth. The melting ice dribbled down the side of his mouth. He couldn’t swallow. Despite all this, he said to me, “I love you.” Oh, yes! “I love you, too, Daddy!” When all else fails, love remains.
All of stayed around the clock and took turns going into his room. My mother, faithful to the end, would not leave his side, even to eat, so we brought her food. We took turns soothing Dad, telling him we were all there, telling him how much he was loved by us and by God. We sang to him and prayed over him. Each ragged breath seemed to be his last.
Finally, wearied and worried, we fell asleep one by one in the middle of the night; some draped on couches and chairs, and some on the carpeted waiting-room floor, too tired to care about the filthiness of it all. Last of all my mother fell asleep in my father’s hospital room. Before dawn, my brother-in-law awakened and went to check on Dad. He alerted my sleeping mother, then went to the nurses’ station. My father died while we were all sleeping. I thought of what our family said before retiring every night: “Good night, sleep tight. Sweet dreams. I love you. See you in the morning.”
The first Sabbath after my father died.
Three days after he died, we got ready for church. It was a beautiful Spring Day. The Dogwoods were in full bloom. You may ask, “How could you all smile for the camera?” 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 is my answer. In case you don’t have a Bible, here is what it says: “But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren [brothers and sisters in the Lord], concerning them which are asleep [dead], that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him. For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent [precede – Strong’s Concordance] them which are asleep. For the Lord Himself shall descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.”
My sister and my father with their Bibles, ready for church.
We have hope to will see our loved ones again. Nothing can hurt my father now. He rests until the beautiful Resurrection Morning. Hope springs eternal for the heart trusting God, and my mother had done a splendid job teaching us all to have hope in God’s word. The first Sabbath after my father died, we went to church. After lunch, we hiked to some beautiful waterfalls in the mountains. My mother needed the fresh air and sunshine after all the months she spent at the hospital by my father’s bedside. Nature is healing. My father spent his life encouraging us to “Keep your chin up, Sweetie Pie.” So, we did.
Enjoy some sunshine, fresh air, the scent of evergreens, and waterfalls or streams – we did! It’s very healing.
My father sacrificed a lot for our family. It was a sacrifice of love. Fathers are not perfect, but many of them give their best. Because of my father, I’m a better person. He loved me and believed in me. He encouraged me with phrases like, “You can do it.” I’m glad I loved and honored him while he was still alive. I honor him in this blog, but I also honor him when I embrace his values and treat others the way I would like to be treated. Yes, there were times when I needed to forgive him, or he needed to forgive me. No one is perfect. An important component of devotion and love is the act of forgiveness. This Father’s Day weekend, love your father and forgive him if he needs it. Not every father is a good one because some men have been mistreated and don’t know how to be a good father. As my mother unfailingly reminded us, “We don’t know what kind of home they have.” Remember, you would not be here without the father you had. Forgiving others is emotionally healing for yourself. Forgiveness, along with a fresh start, is the opposite of the current cancel culture. And in case you also need forgiveness, ask God (our wonderful Heavenly Father who IS always good) to forgive you, then forgive yourself. Next, as both of my parents taught: look for the good in people and in life. I believe in love, devotion, and forgiveness
My mother’s roses just before Mother’s Day the year she died.
Not everyone is gifted with a wonderful mother. Some lose their mothers too soon. Some mothers don’t know how to love because they weren’t loved properly. My heart goes out to everyone who wasn’t loved enough. Can a person learn to love? I believe they can. But one must first be loved in order to give love. I write about my mother, love, forgiveness, and the need for second chances because I believe in sharing her values. I hope it changes someone’s life. I want to share my mother’s love with you, because she would love you if she could meet you. She loved everyone.
A smiling mother tends to promote a smiling baby.
What is a mother? I will share my mother with you. A mother is love, pure and simple! A mother is not perfect, just like no human is perfect. The bond between mother and child is incredibly strong. The baby lives inside its mother for nine months: nourished, cuddled, and sheltered in a very private and protected place, feeling safe and loved, hearing Mommy’s heartbeat and voice. It’s the ultimate intimacy. This Mother’s Day weekend, I honor my beautiful mother. She was loving, generous, fun, and strict in the best sense of the word. She aimed high and wanted the best principles to be part of my life. My mother adored me. I adored her.
The author with her mother and brother.
The picture above was taken a few months after my full-term baby sister took her last breath, minutes after birth, the victim of placental abruption. My mother’s health was not completely recovered at the time of this photo session. She looks quite pale here. As sad as she was, my mother continued to dispense comfort to us with a clean home, good food, stories, bandages, cuddles, and kisses. She filled our lives with love. My mother taught me to be kind and loving to others. Though I might be hurting, it’s not an excuse to hurt others or to make them miserable.
I never wanted to move from this dear little cottage with the ivy-covered front porch in Canoga Park. I left part of my heart behind when we moved a few years later. (The author with her father, mother, and brother.)
The picture above was taken soon after my full-term baby brother died from placental abruption. It was a second tragedy, and I know it broke my mother’s heart. It broke all our hearts. We loved our family. We had been looking forward to each of the new babies. This time my mother nearly died at the hospital. If not for prayers, if not for a new doctor on the night shift who knew of a new medication, if not for this medication being found and delivered by a larger Los Angeles hospital, if not for all the kind people who donated blood to save my mother’s life as her life started to fade away…well, I don’t want to think about the ‘what if’s.’ I’m so grateful my mother lived to celebrate my sixth birthday and many birthdays beyond.
The little Canoga Park Doctor’s Hospital didn’t allow children during visiting hours. My father took us to her ground-floor window when she was feeling better. My brother and I hadn’t seen her in days. My mother smiled and waved. She had saved some little packages of apple jelly from her hospital tray for my brother and me. No matter what was going on in her life, she was always thoughtful of others. I didn’t understand the full significance as a child. But her thoughtfulness staggers me now. When my mother recovered enough to come home, she continued to love us all despite her quiet grieving. My mother’s tender love and care for each of us reinforced her belief and teaching to always care for others, even through pain and sadness.
You would be remiss if you did not ask where my mother got this inner strength. I will tell you. Her love for God and her reliance on God gave her the strength and hope to continue to live and to make a beautiful life for us. It’s the same place you and I can go for strength and hope. Five years later, my mother had a miracle blessing, but that’s a story in my book, A Year of Wearing My Mother’s Perfume.
Homemade cookies.
Most days, as my brother and I walked in the front door after school, my mother was pulling a sheet of warm, fresh cookies from the oven. “Go change your clothes,” she would say. When we had changed into play clothes, we would sit at the table eating warm cookies with a glass of milk, while we told her about our day. She loved to listen to all the details. I usually told my mother all the good things about my day, but if I mentioned someone had been mean to me, she would unfailingly say this: “We don’t know what kind of home they have. Let’s pray for them and forgive them, just like Jesus forgives us. See if you can turn her [or him] into a friend.” Forgiveness meant letting go of hurt feelings (not always easy), being kind to the person who wronged me, and praying for them. Looking for ways to be kind to someone, while praying for them, usually gets rid of the hurt feelings. I learned to appreciate this bit of wisdom. Not everyone has a happy home with unconditional love. It can make a difference.
She called me Babe.
In the time since she was hit by the eighteen-wheeler truck; I’ve been traveling this path of life without my mother. I miss her every day. On second thought, I will always have her love, her principles, and her memories in my heart. Here’s what I would like to say to you. Hug your mother all you can. Tell her how wonderful she is. Thank her every chance you get. I’m glad I did. If you aren’t sure your mother will like some love, surprise her anyway. Maybe she has been waiting to be consistently loved by someone, anyone, because growing up she wasn’t loved properly. There might be trust issues. Maybe she doesn’t know how to love. Love anyway.
I keep this photo collage on my desk. It’s my inspiration as I write.
I love to write, so why does the first blank page of this blog induce a bit of anxiety? My first book, “A Year of Wearing My Mother’s Perfume,” is almost finished. My mentor says writers need a webpage with a blog, even if they haven’t published anything yet. So here I am writing to you, but in reality, it all began on a rainy Monday when a reporter wanted to interview me about my mother’s death two days earlier when an 18-wheeler tractor-trailer crashed into her waiting car at a red light. Many people wondered how I could forgive the truck driver. This story of forgiveness begins with my mother.
From the scene of the crash.
The day after my mother’s death, I looked at her smooth cherry dresser. Among the other pretty things, a mirrored tray held her perfume bottles. Some were vintage and some were newer. I lifted one of the beautiful bottles, caressing the cool, smooth curve of the glass and drew out the stopper. Molecules of memories came pouring out of the jar. Fragrance is the most powerful trigger of memories, especially early memories.
Some of my mother’s perfumes.
The reporter was waiting for my reply. Thoughts raced through my mind. I didn’t know how the reporter and cameraman found my mother’s house. GPS didn’t work in the mountains where her house was located. I didn’t want to be interviewed in my heartbroken condition. I was grieving, exhausted from lack of sleep, as well as going through my mother’s house to find her will. I was disheveled from cleaning after all the company who visited from out of state. The suitcases of family who remained were all over the place. I thought the reporter couldn’t have come at a worse time.
I made my apologies, but then as the reporter turned to go, she said, “Don’t you want people to know what kind of mother you had?” It suddenly struck me. Yes! I did want people to know what kind of mother I had. In the course of the interview, both the reporter and the cameraman had tears. When evening came, I watched the gripping interview. Already, my mother’s perfume was scenting the air.
The essential ingredients of my mother’s life, her ideals and practices, are distilled and blended to make a beautiful perfume that infuses my life to this day. These essential ingredients come from an ancient source. I would love to share some of her secrets with you. Please join me on this journey as we talk about the perfume of love, joy, and forgiveness.
