Mothers Day

My grand daughters, Sara Jayne and Maren, cooked a dinner for me today. There were nine of us here. I talked to all my daughters, took a nap, and had a great Mother's Day. In honor of the best mother in the world I want to write a tribute to her.

When my mother was 16 years old the first Mormon missionaries came to the area and her whole family was baptized. There was not much time to learn about the Gospel before she was
married at 17. My dad was not interested in church, and there was not a branch near enough for her to attend. My first awareness of her being different from the Baptists and Pentacostal members came when I was too young to go to school. We were living in the big antebellum house back in the woods. One day we saw two young men in dark suits and fedora hats walking into the clearing. They introduced themselves as Mormon missionaries. Mama was so excited. ''I'm a Mormon! '' she announced. They looked startled, in disbelief. There were so few members in the state, and none in our area. The mission included Kentucky, North and South Carolina, Tenn., Virginia, and West Virginia, and I don't know how many more. The mission headquarters was in Kentucky, and Charles Callas was president. Mama jumped up and went for her trunk, which held everything important, and said she would show them her baptism certificate. She went through everything, but couldn't find it. They left, and she sat down and and cried, saying, "They didn't believe me!" When she died, Daddy gave me her little trunk. I can't remember what motivated me to turn the upper tray upside down, but stuck to the bottom was her baptism certificate.

I remember having company at our house and hearing them comment on her religion, "Mable won't eat. She's a Mormon, and she's fasting." We went to whatever church we lived near. In second grade we moved near Holiness, a Penticost faith, and Mama and I were the only ones in attendance who were not saved. We sat in the back. I wanted to join everyone at the altar to be saved, but she said it was not the right church. A neighbor told us, after we had missed a meeting, that the preacher had commented, " We can have a good time tonight. The old devil isn't here!" She was sure he meant my mother. She just laughed. We never put any money in the plate, and some thought we were heathens. Mama thought it was better to go to any church than stay home, so on Sunday she would hitch up the mule to the Hoover cart, and leave him tied to a pine tree while we went to the meetings. I loved the Bible stories and children's songs I learned.

I was in high school before we moved near enough to a chapel to drive there, but there was a war, gas shortage, and other than taking a school bus to my cousin's house, I still had no chance to attend my mother's church, and discover why it was so important to her. I loved the weekends I could spend with my cousin Helen, five years older than I. Finally, when I was a junior, we were able to attend regularly. Meetings were held twice each Sunday. I remember the day we heard a sermon on the word of wisdom, a principle which had not been emphasized in the twenties. Mama was very surprised to know that she should not have been drinking tea nor coffee. We were not big coffee drinkers, but iced tea was our salvation summer and winter. I was not sure I could give it up, and determined that I would be baptized if I could go a year without it. Mama never drank a drop of either from the time she heard the talk.

In September of 1946 I was baptized in the dark brown water of Tull's mill pond, wearing a pair of overalls and a work shirt. I was the only member in my senior class.

My younger brothers also wanted to be baptized, and I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life by convincing my mother that she should make them wait until they were older. I thought I knew everything. My philosophy was that it would be worse to commit the sins I was so sure they would. I could see they were poking fun of church. Sitting on the wooden benches my 14 year old brother was amused at how often one Brother Potter said, "My dear brothers and sisters". During a sermon one Sunday he said it some twenty times, and to keep count, Bill cut a notch in the bench each time he said it. I was so embarrased. I had a crush on one of the Harper boys who was on his way to BYU the next fall, and I wanted to make a good impression.

Had the boys been members I am sure they would have done the rowdy things, but their wives would have agreed to go with them to our church. That is just how wives were in our part of the country.

Mama was the hardest worker, the least critical person and most pleasant to be around. She was truly a missionary to my father, and eventually to my brother who is now a member. Other stories for another time.