Mother's Day Book

One of my siblings created a Mother's day book which I rather enjoyed. If they recognize it as theirs I can get it back to them.  My mother has kept it all these years. 

My Poetry: Mom's Grand Kids

I wrote this poem for a Valentine's Day card for my mother.  It must have been written 17 years ago, counting the number of grandchildren, 27.  There are 30 now, so this does not include Heather who is 16.  Also Anna and Tony make up the 30.  My best count is 25 great grand kids.

Mom's Grand Kids

Moms grand kids are twenty-seven
If you count Billy Boy in heaven.
Sara has six, Connie three, Weldon four,
Billy seven, Charlie four, Dianna three; any more?

Twenty-seven grand kids will there be another?
We're not announcing; but per chance is a brother?
Or maybe a sister has a baby in the oven,
Or adoption, when he/she gets here we'll love em.

But wait, twenty-seven grand kids quite a posterity.
One is bound to be great, wait and see.
Soccer, baseball, dance, brains, leadership; what talents?
Potential now, but multiplying, developing in balance.

Great grand kids are three.
I wonder how many there will be.

My Mother and Her Broken Neck

My mother came very close to dying in 2007 when she fell and broke her neck.  All my siblings went to see her, but for some reason I could not get away.  I was about to go, when we discovered she has headed to California for a spell while she recovered.  She stayed with Dianna most the time.  However I did travel with her to Utah for doctor appointment in January 2008.  It was while she was in Utah that these X-rays were taken.  She has a screw in her neck.  It is actually very large, about two inches.

Poetry I like: "To Our Dear Children"

At this stage in my life, I am looking at this in terms of my mother and I; not as a note to my children.  I am not that old, but my mother is.  [However if you judge by how often I call the kids by the wrong name maybe I am.] 
 To Our Dear Children
Anonymous
On the day when you see us old, weak, and weary,
Have patience and try to understand us.
If we get dirty when eating,
If we can not dress on our own,
Please bear with us and remember the times,
We spent feeding you and dressing you up.
If, when we speak to you,
We repeat the same things over and over again,
Do not interrupt us.  Listen to us.
When you were small,
We had to read to you the same story
A thousand and one times until you went to sleep.
When we do not want to have a shower,
Neither shame nor scold us.
Remember when we had to chase you
With your thousand excuses to get you to the shower?
When you see our ignorance of new technologies,
Help us navigate our way through those world wide webs.
We taught you how to do so many things,
To eat the right foods, to dress appropriately,
To fight for you rights.
When at some moment we lose the memory
Or the thread of our conversation,
Let us have the necessary time to remember.
And if we can not, do not become nervous,
As the most important thing is not our conversation,
But surely to be with you and to have you listening to us.
If ever we do not feel like eating, do not force us.
We know well when we need to and when not to eat.
When our tired legs give way
And do not allow us to walk without a cane,
Lend us you hand.  The same way we did
When you tried your first faltering steps.
And when someday we say to you,
That we do not want to live any more, that we want to die,
Do not get angry.  Some day you will understand.
Try to understand that our age is not just lived but survived.
Some day you will realize that, despite our mistakes,
We always wanted the best for you
And we tried to prepare the way for you.
You must not feel sad, angry nor ashamed
For having us near you.
Instead, try to understand us and help us
Like we did when you were young.
Help us to walk.
Help us to live the rest of our life with love and dignity.
We will pay you with a smile and be the immense love
We have always had for you in our hearts.
We love you, child.

MOM AND DAD

Weldon Getting Sick by: Ileen Wardle

This story is probably the scariest experience that happened on the farm.  When Weldon was eight he got very sick and almost died.  This story is written by Mother.
All the children who were in school had been vaccinated for small pox and they all had good scab on them.  We thought they were all healed and Weldon went swimming with some friends and he got his scab knocked off. It seemed to be all right.  After church I came home and bathed and put the children to bed.  Everyone was fine.  My husband and I got up early the next morning as we had to take a tractor into Othello to be worked on.  I left him with the tractor at the garage and came on home.  It was around nine o’clock in the morning.  I went into the boys’ room to get them out of bed.  I looked at Weldon, and was horrified.  Every muscle in his body was twitching and his eyes were rolled back in his head.  I went screaming out the door to our hired man who was Spanish and couldn’t hardly speak English.  He came into the house with me and we got a wet sheet and wrapped Weldon in it and took him into the hospital in Othello, Washington.  It was a small hospital with only 16 beds.  The doctor was afraid that Weldon might have some permanent brain damage. 
In the mean time our hired man went and got my husband and our Bishop came and gave Weldon a special blessing.  Jim and I then loaded him into our car after the doctor had shown us what to do to keep him from swallowing his tongue.  The police escorted us 120 miles to Spokane.  When we arrived at the hospital, Weldon started to rally.  They took him into the emergency room and tapped his spine.  They told us he had an acute virus and it was in his blood stream.  I stayed with him for five days in the hospital and he improved every day.  The doctor told us that if he had been under eight, he would have died.  He is now a strong, healthy man, and has never had a sick day since.  He is now a teacher and a coach, and also a father of three children [eventually four]. 
[Billy’s note:  I was the first to see Weldon acting strangely as we shared a bunk bed with me on top.  I remember looking at him very early in the morning and he was twitching and spitting up saliva.  I asked him if he was playing a game and he didn’t respond.  I went back to sleep, but my memory tells me I had gotten up when my mother came home, and I told her Weldon was acting strangely, although I didn’t perceive it as life threatening.  It was her reaction that told me there was a problem.
I went through life thinking Weldon had a concussion.  My dad had taken us to A&W for root beer on a Sunday.  Somehow Weldon had bonked his head against the wall while we were horse playing.  My memory must have been wrong and mixed two things together.  I was five at the time.]

The Big Move by: Ileen Wardle

The Big Move by : Mother
After graduating from the University of Denver with a Master’s Degree in Library Science my husband, Jim, returned to our home in Hyrum, Utah where we had been living for the last three years.  Jim proudly announced we would be moving to Carbondale, Illinois where he would be a cataloger at the University of Illinois Library.  My first reaction is where is Carbondale?  He gathered all the family together, got out the Atlas and showed us a map of the State of Illinois; Carbondale was at the southern tip of Illinois.  Everyone exclaimed, “It is so far away—halfway across the United States.”  We were all glad that Jim had a new job, but hated to leave our beautiful home and many friends.
The day of the big move came on the 28th of August 1967.  “Boy,” what a lot of work; we had so much stuff to move—things to sort and throw away—trips to the Deseret Industries.  A moving van came and loaded up all the furniture, but we also had a wagon full, the back of the pick-up and the car.  I drove the car with sixteen year old Sara, fourteen year old Connie and 18 month old Dianna.  We also had with us our Siamese cat Fifi.  Jim drove the pick-up with the wagon behind him.  He had with him, eleven year old Weldon, nine year old Bill, six year old Charles and the dog. 
After going through Denver, I began to get a sick feeling as we were leaving behind the beautiful mountains.  We seemed to travel for miles and miles.  We started through Kansas as the sun was coming up in the morning and were just leaving the state of Kansas as the sun was going down.  The children were very restless all through Kansas as all they could see was farm land and windmills.  They made a game out of who could count the most windmills. 
When we arrived in St. Louis, Missouri we took a wrong road and ended up on the east side where all the colored people lived.  We were all very scared as this was a different color of people than we were used to seeing.  All the homes and buildings were so run down and poor looking.  We were still 120 miles from Carbondale.  We were three days and two nights on the road. 
Carbondale was a beautiful place; the trees were so green and moss was growing up the trunks.  Squirrels would run from one tree to another and were everywhere.  The humidity was very high and something we were not used to.  We all felt so sticky and hot.  My hair and the girls wouldn’t hold a curl so we all had our hair cut short.
You never needed to water your lawns or gardens because of the high humidity and when it rained it really poured.  The most beautiful time of all in Carbondale was in the spring when the red bud and dogwood trees would all com in bloom, with their beautiful red and white blossoms.
It was a new adjustment for all of us.  The children met colored boys and girls in their schools for the first time and it was frightening for them and we were there at the time of the civil rights movement.
We were in Carbondale for two years and when it was time to leave we left many choice people and were all grateful for the choice time we had while we were in Carbondale.

Charlie's Blanket by: my Mom

Charlie’s Blanket by: Ileen Wardle
Charlie’s Grandma Wardle made him a baby blanket for his crib right after he was born.  It was blue with little blocks of white lambs.  Charlie really loved this blanket and it had one special corner that he liked the feel of.  You would hand him his blanket and he would turn it around until he found his special cornet.  Then he would rub it with his left hand and suck his thumb on his right hand.  It was always a rough day for Charlie when we needed to wash his blanket.  He would stand in front of the washer and dryer until his blanket was dried.  I guess he was afraid someone would take away his security.  Charlie was over three years old when he finally gave the poor worn out blanket a rest.  I put it away and when we moved from the farm to Utah, I packed it with some of Jim’s navy uniforms.  When he was in the ninth grade he happened to find it.  You would have thought he had found his best friend again.

My poetry: The Peace of Home

The Peace of Home

                                      Dedicated to my mother        

When I was young, I often marveled

That the world could torment and trouble,

But when I arrived home all was peace,

As if I’d curled up in a blanket of fleece.

I always took that peace for granted,

As if for free it had been planted…

But not for free, but a mother’s work

Created this peace apart from a world gone berserk.

And now that I’ve become a father,

I’m still confused.  I wonder.  I ponder.

Is there some magic code to release,

That special, loving feeling--feeling of peace?

So it can permeate in my home,

And call to my children when they’re gone,

“Here is a place free from worldly cares.

Come, be refreshed.  Here is peace, free of briars.”

And it dawns on me, there is a key,

A Christ centered man I need to be,

Like my mother; full of love, quick to pray,

Bearing all things, giving kind service each day.

If I can exemplify these traits

In my children’s eyes--I will be great.

Not because of me, no I’m not the one,

Just love God, as my mother also has done.

                                                Billy Wardle