Wisdom from the Wise Old Owl

Grandma and Grandpa Doty with their 5 children. (My mother is the ever-so-cute blond on the right.)

Grandma and her eldest son outside their first house in the oil fields of McFadden, WY.

Grandma and Grandpa's original house in Byron, WY. They lived there for 6 years until Grandpa finished the "big" house 1938.

Grandma and friends knitting.

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I have always admired my Grandma Doty. She knew how to do just about everything it seemed to me. But then again she had to. She raised a family of 5 during the depression, and despite a hardworking husband, they didn't have much unless they provided it themselves. She had chickens, a cow, and a garden. Most of what they ate was provided by the sweat of their own brows. Grandma made bread, butter, jams, jellies, and fruit leather. She canned and dried fruits and vegetables. She knew how to sew, and made almost all of her children's clothing. She quilted, tatted, crocheted, and knitted.

Nothing went to waste at grandma's house. She saved everything--including rainwater. I remember the big wooden barrel outside her door, waiting to capture every drop the spring storms deposited. She swore that using rainwater for a shampoo made for the softest and silkiest hair.

"Waste not, want not" was her mantra and one that she took seriously. Her grandchildren were instructed to "eat the apples off of the ground first!" but most of us snuck a few of the bright, crisp green apples from the tree anyway. And oh, how good those apples were.

One of our favorite treats was the dried apples she would make. Miraculously her stock was never low even though most of us would eat ourselves sick on nearly every visit despite her warnings of possible stomachaches. They were such a favorite that we looked forward to their addition to our Christmas stockings even into our adulthood.

As Grandma got older, her resources dwindling and her progeny growing ever greater, she began to give gifts of the heart rather than the wallet. One year she wrote us this:

"It has been suggested that I give advice...on what? And why? Because I am old and supposed to be wise about a number of things as the wise old owl?...Well, I am not that "wise old owl"...all wise, but I will give a few ideas that I have learned over the years, and I hope it will be of benefit to someone.

"I have always enjoyed teaching, whether in a class or in the home. What I have learned and the knowledge I have gained I have always wanted to share with others. Have I done that? If the student has not learned, then I, the teacher have failed. I have taught sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting and quilting. I know some who have gained and are using these skills, but have I taught the gospel? I have tried...Let me go over the steps to gain the knowledge of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

1. I suggest prayer. This is the first step in learning of our Father in Heaven.

2. Read the scriptures daily. Many problems can be solved through this habit.

3. Live the commandments and you will know for yourself the truth of each principle you live."

She was and continues to be a grand example of faith, and her faithful life was part of the bedrock of my personal relationship with God. Of all that I gained from her, I consider that her greatest contribution, and I think it is the thing that would please her most as well. She wanted each of us to live well, and that meant living right. None of us had any doubt about her opinions. She was not shy about about sharing her perspective, but I must admit, some of the best advice I've ever gotten was from her. Here are some of the things she told me that I remember most:

From my teenage years: "If you find your toes being stepped on a lot, you might want to pull them in."

From my early marriage: "Make your words soft and sweet. You never know when you'll have to eat them."

Regarding parenting: "Teaching begins with the baby. Of course, the baby teaches us, too. The most important thing, I think, in training children is to stick to the things you say. Never say a no or yes unless it is followed up on. Once you make a decision follow through and hold to it. You can never go wrong by giving a youngster lots of love and kisses mixed with discipline. Child training is merely knowing which end of your child to pat...and when."

Clearly my Grandmother was not a romantic or a dreamer. No, she would best be described as pragmatic, a realist and do-er by nature and by way of life, but those qualities served her well. She did not merely survive; she triumphed. Living to the ripe age of 102, she was a source of inspiration to four generations of children. There was nothing weak about Grandma Doty, and I find it amazing that I continue to draw from her well of strength though she has been gone these last seven years.

When things get a little tough, I consider the events of her life and get to work. She was fond of saying, "You kids get married and think you have to have everything right away! What you don't realize is that it took your parents years and years to get what they've got." When my wants get ahead of my needs, I hear her voice in my head. When money is a little tight, I think of her ingenuity and find a way to make do and make it better with a little bit of elbow grease. She taught me that there is nothing I can't learn to do if I'm willing to put forth the effort.

And so last Thursday, I learned to can. Well, make that re-learn. I canned with my mother when I was a girl, but somewhere around 1981 my mom lost that Mormon mojo. (Mormons and canning is a another post altogether.) So when I found out my friend Angie (who may need professional help with her aversion to having her picture taken) was canning apples, I invited myself over, and look what we Mollies accomplished:

Final total: 48 quarts of apples

I even pulled out my dehydrator and dried apples (most of which I have eaten single handily. And for the record, I did give myself a stomachache one night.)

On Monday, I tried to finish off the 2 ginormous boxes of apples by canning apple pie filling. Final total: 11 quarts, 1 very messy house, and 1 tired mama. Can you read my eyes in that photo? I think they are saying, "When will the project ever be finished?"

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Despite the mess and the exhaustion, it was a wonderful experience to be reminded of the amazing women who came before me, who blessed me with their sacrifice, experience, and knowledge. I hope I have inherited some of their magic, and I hope, one day, to be worthy of them. Thank you, Grandma, and until I see you again, I will strive to make you proud.

Stitched Together

Going to Grandma Doty's house always meant I would get to do a project of some kind. She taught me to paint fabric, cross stitch, and quilt. As a tiny child I remember crawling under the quilting frame that seemed eternally to be set up in her living room and listening to the chatter of Grandma and her friends, watching the quilting needles duck in and out of the tight fabric making neat, tiny stitches.

When I was a teenager I asked Grandma to help me make a quilt of my own. From one of her overflowing back closets, Grandma pulled already pieced blocks of outrageously bright fabric scraps that became the basis of my first "crazy quilt." She taught me to place them in a pattern, sew the rows together, and then the quilting began. I have sweet memories of sitting at that quilt, my Grandmother and I. This time I was part of the chatter, and I steered the conversation to Grandma's past watching the pattern of her life story emerge.

She told me of her childhood: Her family's early settling of the Big Horn Basin, complete with flies, dirt, cabins, and lean-tos; cutting the ice from the river to cross to and from school; how Great-Grandpa hauled good from Montana to Wyoming by frieght team and about his amazing ability with horses. She recounted a long childhood trip in a Model-T to California so that she could be cured by a doctor of her severe stuttering, which she was. I learned the details of how Great Grandpa traded a team and plow for her piano on which she learned to play, and how that piano-building man from Chicago gave up his newly built homestead when his wife refused to join him in Wyoming.

She recounted her year at the state university, where she met Grandpa, the details of their early romance, and how he got on the train to see her off only to stay on through a number of stops before disembarking and buying another ticket home; how her father refused to let her return to Laramie for fear that it would look like she was "chasing" grandpa, insisting instead that the next year she attend BYU. She recalled the long exchange of letters before the eventual proposal. I discovered her passion for teaching and the details of her few years as a young elementary teacher. I heard of her worries and hardships as a mother: How her oldest child suffered from diabetes and the strict diet she monitored; how she would cut cardboard soles to put inside the children's shoes to make them wear the rest of the year; the simple Christmas gifts she would create for them.

The completed quilt would not win any awards. Many of my stitches were clumsy and its brash color scheme does not make for a showpiece, but I treasure it nonetheless. To me it is a symbol of the sweetest time she and I spent together, the time when I came to really know my grandmother. And that experience is quilted on my heart.

Remembering Grandma

My Grandma Peterson was not funny. In fact, she was so not funny that she was hilarious. A case in point: She lived kitty corner from the high school and one of her main hobbies was watching those high school students like a hawk. One day, while having a conversation with my brother Curt, who himself was in high school, she said with a look of sure disdain, "I watch what goes on over there. I know who's smoking dope." Just hearing the word "dope" come out of her mouth was funny.

Ray couldn't resist. "Really? How do you know?"

"I can tell by looking in their eyes."

"Well, Grandma, do you think Curt's smoking dope?" Poor Curt was the youngest of five brothers. They loved torturing him.

She gave him a long sideways look, then turning away with a sniff said, "I'm not going to say."

"Grandma!!" Curt was flabbergasted. Everyone else was in hysterics.

She also had an inexplicable aversion to having her picture taken. We don't have a lot of pictures of Grandma, but we do have many pictures of someone with a tea towel over her head or a hand in front of her face. I'm assuming that is her.

The woman would also never say goodbye. Not even on the phone where it is the socially acceptable way to signal the end of the conversation. I was surprised by a click and the dial tone in many of my conversations with Grandma. When she was done saying whatever it was she needed to say, she'd just hang up. I asked her once why she never said goodbye. Her answer? "It's too final."

I think it might have had something to do with her obsession with death. She talked about it all the time and acted like it was waiting just around the corner despite her strong health. Every time one of my brothers left for their 2-year church mission she would say, "Well. I probably won't be here when you get back." Over a span of about 15 years, she saw every one of them return. By the fifth grandson, it had become a joke of sorts.

But she was obsessed with some other things, too. Her flower beds for one. Standing between the street and the sidewalk in front of her house were two long, raised brick flower beds, which were planted with purple and pink petunias every spring. I can never remember any other flower or color ever being used. It was her way. Certainly she was a creature of habit, but then again, maybe she just knew what she liked. Anyway, the flowers were planted in very straight rows in a very specific color pattern. I guess you could say she lived her life with hospital corners, and she did not like when those corners were mussed in any way. Pity the child who made the mistake of walking the brick edges of those planters! And she didn't miss a one of them. She would open the door and give them a tongue lashing the likes of which they had never before experienced. I remember more than one time cringing inside her front room while a school chum of mine ran away in fear.

Having spent some years as a teacher, she had high expectations of children's behavior. We were very clear that we were expected to pick up our playthings before getting out another toy. She also was a stickler for coloring inside the lines and excellent posture. I can't color with my children without thinking of her, and I still hear her voice in my head, "Back straight. Head up. One foot directly in front of the other with toes pointing forward." Someone told me once that I carry myself like a tall person. Despite not knowing exactly what that means, I think I can credit my grandmother for it.

Oh, I credit my grandmother for a lot of things. I spent quite a lot of time there since her house was just across the block, through the neighbor's backyard. I have fond memories of that woman. She taught me to play card games: Old Maid and Animal Rummy. She wouldn't just let me win, either. If I won, I knew I had actually earned it. She always gave me saltines, cheese, and Coke for a snack. It's still one of my favorites. I remember spending the night at her house, sharing her room, she in one twin bed and I in the other. Before falling asleep she would tell me the story of a group of Indians who carried a settler girl away. I don't remember the rest of the story, but I do recall it was quite fascinating.

And oh, how I loved her macaroni and cheese. Well, that was what she called it. Now I know that it was just cheesy noodles. She'd boil giant elbow macaroni (the likes of which I have never found as an adult), throw in some Colby cheese (which she let me cut into cubes with the big knife), and stir until it melted. The ultimate cheesiness, stringing from the bowl to my mouth, filling the inside of the noodles. Heavenly. And then afterward she would let me wash the dishes, the incredibly hot water she insisted upon turning my little hands pink.

If it got on toward evening I could count on watching the Lawrence Welk Show with her. It was during one of these shows that she gave me some great performing advice: Never sing with your eyes closed. Paula Abdul has nothing on my Grandmother. She was giving that advice long before American Idol.

She also played a vital role in teaching me how to work. When I was old enough I got to mow her lawn, which was a treat since she had a riding lawn mower and being fascinated with the concept of driving, I was happy to drive anything mechanical. But Grandma wasn't satisfied with mediocrity. Her expectation was that any job worth doing was worth doing well. Doing her lawn meant raking, edging, trimming--the works. She could be a bit of a task master, but those lessons of hard work and going the extra mile have been a blessing to me. I never wanted to disappoint my grandmother, and I still don't.

Grandma Peterson died when I was fourteen years old. I have been without her longer than the time I had with her, but she is forever with me, inside my mind and my heart. She lives on despite the boundaries of mortality. She exists in the way I walk, the way I work, and the way I raise my children. As it turns out, we don't have to say goodbye because that kind of love is an immortality of sorts, and there is nothing funny about that. (And don't think for a minute that I doubt she's watching me like a hawk! Right, Grandma?)

Pancakes and Dreams

When we were children the beginning of the Christmas season was not announced by the first snow or the annual slew of greeting cards or even the distribution of the obligatory candy plates between neighbors and friends. No, we knew Christmas was truly on the way only with the arrival of the JC Penny and Montgomery Wards Christmas catalogues. Having rarely been inside an actual toy store where the sole commodity was playthings, the catalogues came to us like manna from the elves. Oh! The possibilities that lay before us on those dog-eared pages each of us perused so carefully. The Christmas wish list was nothing to be taken lightly. After all, the hopes and dreams of an entire year were hanging in the balance.

When Ray was perhaps nine or ten, the pages of the catalogue spoke to him. Maybe he didn’t even know he wanted it before he saw it, but suddenly his Christmas wish was right in front of him: The Burger Chef. Now some might compare it to a Betty Crocker Easy Bake Oven, but don’t be misled. This was no sissy cake baker. Good grief, man, this thing could cook meat! I can see the dreams that may have run through his head: The dinners he would whip up for the family, the amazing delights he could make for his friends, standing beside Dad at the family cookout and matching him burger for burger. Yes, the Burger Chef would make for one incredible year!

To his delight, Santa concluded that he had indeed been good enough that year, and the Burger Chef was his. To make the dream complete he announced that he was going to make Christmas breakfast for the family. After he and Mom set up the stove, which consisted mainly of screwing in a low-wattage light bulb, he pulled out the packet of pancake mix included with the set and readied himself for glory. It wasn’t long, however, before there was a pinprick in the bubble of his delight. Quite quickly he realized that the breadth of his pancakes was going to closely resemble that of a quarter. Nonetheless he concluded that the difficulty of size could easily be overcome by quantity. Many little pancakes could just as easily fill a stomach as one large one. Thus saving his hopes from the jagged rocks of despair, he pushed the pan inside, and with his nose nudged against the plastic window, he eagerly watched the cooking process.

Behind him, he began to hear complaints from the other children, “Geez, Ray! I’m hungry! When are we going to eat?”

With every minute that passed, he became more deflated. They didn’t seem to be cooking at all! It was becoming clear that he was not going to be able to provide an entire breakfast, but even more disconcerting was the idea that if the thing couldn’t even cook pancakes, how was it ever going to cook meat?!

Many hungry complaints later, some very smallish, scary looking pancakes were served. While his siblings grumbled, and Mom began making pancakes on the larger and more reliable cook top, Dad stacked three on his vast plate, topped them with a dab of syrup, and cut into them with knife and fork. Two bites finished the meal, and turning to Ray he said, “Mmm! That was delicious, son!”

And just like that Ray’s pride was restored. It didn’t matter that he had taken his first stony bite of reality. It didn’t matter that he had begun to see that not all dreams are delivered as they appear in the catalogues. It didn’t even matter that his family would not eat the pancakes made by his own hand. No, the day had been a success: His father had declared it so, and he couldn’t wait to see what other “delicious” delicacies could be created with The Burger Chef.

The Pocket Protector: Why Everyone Should Wear One

It was a night like almost every other: The family was seated around the table, enjoying a meal and trying to out-funny one another. Dad began to laugh over some comment that was made, and because he was just recovering from a cold, he also began to cough, which went unnoticed amid the entire hubbub that was the evening meal. He did get everyone’s attention, though, when he slumped over in his chair.

`Thinking it was another of his little jokes, mom nudged his arm and rolling her eyes said, “Oh, Dee...”

No response. “Dee?!” the panic beginning to rise in her voice as she shook him. Alarmed, she began to shout, “Somebody do something!”

I was too young to really understand what was going on and looked to Ken whose face was ashen. Curt was frozen in place, and I became sure that my dad had, in fact, died right there at the dinner table. The only one who seemed capable of any action was Ray who sprang to his feet and maneuvered behind our father. Dad was a big man and it was not easy for Ray to get his arms all the way around him to perform the Heimlich correctly, and Dad did not help as he was completely unconscious. With Dad’s head resting on his own chest, Ray heaved and squeezed as best he could. This action did not dislodge any food, but it did force a pen from Dad’s pocket protector to jab him furiously in the neck.

Immediately he came to with, “What the hell are you doing?!”

It was not the hero’s salutation that Ray had expected. More precisely, he was a little put out with the lack of appreciation. “I just saved your life!” he grunted. Ray may credit himself for Dad’s recovery that night, but I think Dad knew something all along: You just never know when a pocket protector will come in handy.

Dad's Answer for the Most Important Meal of the Day

Some things could be counted on as sure as the sun would rise every morning. Grandma Peterson would never say goodbye after a telephone conversation, Grandma Doty would always insist we eat the apples off of the ground first, and Mom would always make breakfast before sending her children off to school. Like the Earth circling the sun or the ebb and flow of the tides, we took it for granted: Our rights included breakfast.

That’s why when Mom was called as an early morning seminary teacher, she nearly said no. She still had a child at home, someone who needed a good hearty breakfast before school. Who could do that if she weren’t there in the morning?

“Dee Ray, you have to promise me that you will get up and make sure Laurel has breakfast before she leaves for school every morning.”

I’m not sure how much faith she actually had in his abilities to accomplish this feat as he was not a morning person nor did he possess any culinary skills, but he did give her the Boy Scout’s Honor and that meant something. Her first day was not, however, free from worry, and rightly so.

Just as I was ready to leave the house, Dad came stumbling out of their bedroom dressed only in his underwear and without his toupee. Still trying to get his eyes to focus, he firmly said, “Wait! I promised your mother I’d feed you breakfast.” He had opened the refrigerator and was examining the inside.

“Dad, I don’t have time. Besides, I’m not hungry anyway.”

“No! I promised your mother,” he said, eyes darting around the room. “Here! Eat a cookie.”

Nothing sounded more revolting than a heavy dose of pure sugar at eight in the morning. “No thanks. I don’t want a cookie.”

“Eat it.”

“Dad, I—“

“They have eggs and milk and flour. That’s all breakfast stuff.” He was getting desperate.

“…Okay, thanks for breakfast, Dad.”

“Have a good day,” he said as I walked out the front door holding the chocolate chip cookie in my hand. Mission accomplished.

Turns out there were some other things we could count on: Dad would never do his best work in the morning, and he’d never make breakfast, but he’d always try to keep his promises.

Getting Ditched: A Tribute to Childhood

During all of my growing up years our little community had open irrigation ditches running through town. Living on main street I didn't have one running right in my front yard, but my lucky friends Ella and Kelly did. Now when I say irrigation ditches, I mean knee-deep trenches simply cut into the earth through which water from the canal flowed all summer long. The adults used it to water lawns, backyard pastures, and the giant-sized gardens most families grew, but we kids merely spent hours playing in that cool, muddy water. Inner city kids had the spray of fire hydrants; suburban kids had a pool; Cowley kids had ditches.

Some of my happiest memories were made there. I remember playing house, each of us getting our own little section of the ditch where we created sitting areas and "cupboards" in the muddy banks; I remember one day when Kelly's out-of-town cousin was being a particular pain and we threw her in the ditch causing her to run home crying. We probably should have felt badly, but the reigning attitude was that she had it coming. I also remember my mom making cucumber boats which we raced from one end of the ditch to the other. I imagine all Cowley kids had such happy memories. Check out my neice Shana's comments from yesterday as proof.

The ditches are long gone now, replaced by progress I suppose, but I can't help but feel a little sorry for the Cowley kids of today. What are they going to do all summer long?

As a tribute to my childhood, my children and I are making cucumber boats today. I think I even thought of the perfect place to race them: Our local library has a nutty water feature that resembles a long ditch. And hey, if we get arrested my children may have some interesting childhood memories of their own.