102 years old

November 17th -- my mother's birthday. Today she would have been 102 years old. My mother was a beautiful woman, and while I don't feel that I inherited any of her physical features, I do think I am a lot like my mother in many ways. I often catch myself doing things that cause me to say, "I've turned into my mother."

My mother raised seven children, one of them born with a congenital heart defect that took his life at age 15. It was a time when mothers didn't have cars. They were at home. Mother came pretty close to being a "perfect" homemaker. She baked bread twice a week, washed twice a week (with a wringer washer) and hung everything on the line. Then she ironed it all, including the multitude of starched petticoats her five girls wore during the 50's. She grew beautiful roses and gladiolas. When we woke up on summer mornings we knew we would find her in the garden. She knew how to cook for a crowd and could cook up a dutch-oven meal for 80 in the middle of nowhere. She sewed all our clothes, including our formals and bridal gowns. She could entertain general authorities and political leaders with grace and class, but she could also work on the farm, build a mountain cabin, or run the Stake Primary. We lived in a small four-bedroom home (no family room, one bathroom to share). Besides our own family of nine, she rented the basement apartment to student couples and also took in borders (college students who paid for a room and ate their meals with us). When I see how small the home is now, I'm amazed that she was able to keep it so clean and organized.

Oh mother, when times get hard, I pray that the things I have inherited from you will serve my family as well as you served yours.