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Show Orem-Geneva Times- j4 "Mother forgotten" is observed all too frequently. fre-quently. The nursing homes are crowded, the hospital beds are full, the days come and go - often the weeks and months pass - but mother is not visited. Can we not appreciate the pangs of loneliness, the yearnings of mother's heart when hour after hour, alone in her age, she gazes out the window for the loved one who does not visit, the letter the postman does not bring. She listens for the knock that does not sound, the telephone that does not ring, the voice she does not hear. How does such a mother feel when her neighbor welcomes wel-comes gladly the smile of a son, the hug of a daughter, daugh-ter, the glad exclamation of a child, "Hello, Grandmother!" Grand-mother!" There are yet other ways we forget mother. Whenever we fail, whenever when-ever we do less than we ought, in a very real way we forget mother. Last Christmas I talked to the proprietress of a Salt Lake City nursing home. From the hallway where we stood, she pointed to several elderly women assembled in a peaceful living room. She observed, ob-served, "There's Mrs. Hansen. Her daughter visits her every week, right at 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. To her right is Mrs. Peek. Each Wednesday Wed-nesday there is a letter in her hands from her son in New York. It is read, then reread, then saved as a precious piece of treasure. But see Mrs. Carroll: her family never telephones, never writes, never visits. Patiently she justifies this neglect with words that are heard but do not convince or excuse: ex-cuse: They are all so busy.'" Shame on all who First Mother's Day Without Her . . . Wherever Mother is this morning, God, Let there be sunshine and a child at play, And let the meadow lark salute the day In ecstasy of song. Let there be roses blooming by her door-The door-The hybrid tea rose, and the wild rose, too. She loved them both. And let her sky be blue As it is here. Let some small child approach her eager feet, To bring a flower ... a dandelion will do To make this day like others she once knew When she was here. And somehow, in some way, please let her know How much we miss her, and we love her so ! From the book, "The Little Things, " by Mirla Greenwood Green-wood Thayne. Permission Hawks Publishing Co. To Daughter On Mother's Day This Mother's Day, my daughter, I would sing my song for you, A n echo of the glad years of the pas t. When first they placed you in my arms, a helpless help-less little mite, I thought my cup of joy was full at last. My song will tell of happy hours made sweet by baby charms, Of tiny wiggly baby toes and soft pink baby arms, Of baby goodnight kisses and prayers said at my knee, And all unmentioned blisses that your coming meant to me. My song will speak of all the joys that filled my mother-heart Each time you learned another word or mastered mas-tered some new art. I never shall forget the day you took your first few steps, To run, with glee, into my arms. You laughed With joy I swept You to my heart and held you close, so glad that you were strong, So grateful that your loveliness could merit such a song Of happiness and pure delight. And I'm so thankful, dear, That as the years go swiftly on, in due time I shall hear You singing songs and lullabies and odes of praises to Your children, my grandchildren. Happy Mother's Day to you! From the book, "The Little Things, " by Mirla Greenwood Green-wood Thayne. Permission Hawks Publishing Co. thus make of a noble woman "mother forgotten." for-gotten." Hearken unto thy father that begat thee," wrote Solomon, "and despise de-spise not thy mother when she is old." (Proverbs 23:22) Can we not make, of a mother forgotten, a mother remembered? Men turn from evil and yield to their better natures when mother is remembered. A famed officer from the Civil War period, when asked to name the incident of the Civil War that he considered con-sidered the most remarkable for bravery, said that there was in his regiment a man whom everybody liked, a man who was brave and noble, who was pure in his daily life, absolutely free from dissipations in which most of the other men indulged. in-dulged. One night at a champagne supper, when many were becoming intoxicated, someone in jest called for a toast from this young man. Colonel Higgenson said that he arose, pale, but with perfect self-control, and declared: "Gentlemen, I will give you a toast which you may drink as you will, but which I will drink in water. The toast that I have to give is 'Our mothers.'" Instantly a strange spell seemed to come over all the tipsy men. They drank the toast in silence. There was no laughter, no more song, and one by one they left the room. The lamp of memory had begun to burn, and the name of "Mother" touched every man's heart. -Thomas S. Monson "Behold Thy Mother," published by Deseret Book Company. Available wherever LDS books are sold. m9 "Every Time I Open" There sits a young man here today in whose home I was a guest at a stake conference. Since he had recently left for the BYU, I was to sleep in his room Saturday night. As his gracious mother showed me the room, she opened his closet where I saw a handwritten letter taped to the rod in the closet. It read: Mom, Thanks, for all you've done to make this a special summer. You are a very special mother and I thank the Lord for the blessing of being your son. I love you and appreciate appre-ciate all you do in my behalf. See you in November. Paul As she paused while I read it, she said, "Hope you don't mind hanging your clothes out here. This note is still kind of precious. You know, every time I open this closet I read it again, and I would like to leave it there a little longer." Well, Paul, you are probably leaving for home tomorrow. May I suggest that when you get home you take that sweet little mother of yours in those strong young arms and give her a squeeze so that she'll know you are home -and thankful. -A. Theodore Tuttle "Memories of Mothers," published by Deseret Book Company. Available wherever LDS books are sold. ! . is s ill . LUCY DRUCEAL AND ELGIN OLIPHANT : t Lucy Oliphant-A Truly Dedicated Wife And Mother "As far as I know, she's never whipped a child. She loves children and still teaches Primary," says Elgin Oliphant of his wife of fifty-six years, Lucy Druceal Toone. "She's a natural born mother. God sent her to the earth for that." Elgin Oliphant claims that his wife "can make something out of nothing and has had to make do with little sometimes, because I'm not too good at making money." The Oliphants met in Salt Lake City and were married September 24, 1924 in the Salt Lake Temple. They have eleven children who have since given birth to eighty-seven grandchildren grandchild-ren and, so far, ten greatgrandchildren, great-grandchildren, with six on the way. Elgin told how Mrs. Oliphant makes quilts for every new baby and for marriages. The Oliphants have a big family celebration on the fourth of July and also on the Friday prior to Christmas. "She makes presents for each one of the children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren great-grandchildren and all of "That Was My First One of the first things I remember was when my mother took me by the hand and led me upstairs up-stairs to the bedroom. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. She sat down by my little trundle bed and had me kneel in front of her. She folded my hands and took them in hers and taught me my first prayer. I shall never forget it. I do not want to forget it. It is one of the loveliest memories that I have in life. It was such a simple prayer that I can repeat it today: Now I lay me down to sleep, the in-laws," says Elgin, who takes great pride in his spouse. "One year she broke her jaw, explains Elgin, "but she's so calm in emergencies, she didn't panic at all." Mrs. Oliphant said that her mother "raised us all alone," while she and her brothers were growing up. Elgin pointed out that "she was a great help to her mother; she went out to make the living and helped raise the other children." "I was only twelve then," explained Mrs. Oliphant. "I taught my brothers to eat carrots. I cooked them every day until they learned to eat them. Now they thank me for it." The Oliphants have seen hard times in the past. During the Great Depression, they lived in "an old cement block house where three children were born." They built the home they presently reside in and according to Mr. Oliphant, "it is the finest home we've had." Mrs. Oliphant crochets, knits, quilts and cooks. When asked I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. That was my first prayer. It opened for me the windows of heaven. That prayer extended to me the hand of my Father in Heaven. From that day, wherever I have been, I have felt close to my Heavenly Father. I have often said no man in the world has been more blessed than I. From my childhood, ever since I can remember, I have never been compelled com-pelled to associate with about her cooking, Elgin explained that "anything Momma cooks is good for me, so I eat it. We don't use white sugar or flour and we eat vegetables from our garden." The grounds of their home reflect their interest in land-scaping. Mr. Oliphant has worked many years in landscaping and they have worked together in beautifying their yard. Mr. Oliphant quips, "She can wash dishes faster than a dishwashing machine and she can pick three buckets of fruit from a tree to my one." Their oldest son is fifty-six and their youngest is thirty-two. Their children have all had large families which has contributed to their great posterity. The oldest says that she enjoys good health from hard work. She has worked in Relief Society for many years and has worked in Primary as a teacher for sixty-three years. They attend the temple twice a week together. They don't have a car and walk almost everywhere they go. Prayer" evil individuals. I have been very fortunate in having my life so adjusted that I could choose the very finest men and women that could be found in the world to be my companions. com-panions. This has enriched my life, and I am grateful. -George Albert Smith From the book, "Memories of Mothers," published by Deseret Book Company, available whenever when-ever LDS books are sold. The hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. ToA New Life Motherhood is woman's wo-man's supreme gift and its joys are bound to set the heart singing many times during an ordinary day. The mother, whose devotion to her growing family fills every hour with the commonplace, learns to find joy in her immediate surroundings: and as she sings her songs of gratitude for the "little things," her blessings multiply, for it has been promised that she "who is grateful in all things will be made glorious." From the first quiver of life in the womb to the miracle of a baby's first cry, expected and realized motherhood can be an exalting exDerience and was fore-ordained to be just that. Who ran to help me when I fell, and would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My Mother. There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount of deep strong, deathless love, save that within a mother's heart. There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child. Man and Woman, are individually, the artificers of their own happiness. "TheDayWe Picked The Beans" That summer was the most prolific bean summer we could remember. re-member. Every morning Mama said, "Up early now and see if there are any beans ready for canning." can-ning." There always were. Day after day, we picked early, and we canned during the morning morn-ing hours. When the best of the beans were bottled, and the picking grew thinner and thinner, we began to nod conspira-torily conspira-torily at one another. Bean canning was done for another summer. Then one day Mama looked across the road to the Evans' bean patch. "I do believe she needs help," she said. That evening Mama went over to see Marie. They walked through the garden, talking and pinching and nodding. We watched and sighed. It wasn't that Marie wasn't just as energetic as Mama (she was even younger), and ever so hardworking (she worked downtown each day), or that she needed the canned beans any the less for her family (she had little children). It was just that Mama had a terrific green thumba deep respect for any growing thing, and a horror of waste. She couldn't let those' beans get one day older or tougher. The next morning, earlier than usual, there was Mama. "Up everyone!" she called cheerily, "We are picking beans today." "But Mama," we hesitated. "Ours are all And The Angels Sang$g A young girl stood at the crossroad contemplating the paths of life which stretched before her. Today, she must choose. The path on the left was resplendent with the neons of fame and fortune. If she followed this path she knew, full well, that she would receive the plaudits of men, for life had been kind to the girl, endowing her with many talents. When her slender fingers touched the strings of a violin, Tchaikovsky, Broaiiij, and Schubert seemed to live again. In the creating of poetry and art she also excelled. Now, as she stood at the crossroads she pondered pon-dered these things and gave gratitude for her gifts. Surely, this must be the way of life for her. So she turned to follow the path of fame and fortune. The cry of a small child caused her to hesitate. Reluctantly, she turned back to view, again, the path whence the cry came. This way appeared rugged. Roses bloomed profusely along the path, yet cacti and thorns were also visible, and the distant hills were steep. A small cottage opened a welcome door to her, but she could see that there was work to be done therein, there-in, and the road was obscured by small shadows. Suddenly Sud-denly the girl seemed to lose sight of the rainbow at the end of the trail ... so she turned again to the left where the glamour of fame still beckoned. The voice of the child again arrested her, and she turned to wonder at its pleading . . . and a strange yearning took possession of her. "I shall paint a picture of the child," she said. "Perhaps this will still my yearning." And the painting was a perfect likeness of the little one, still the girl's heart knew no rest. "I shall compose a lullaby! " And the song flowing from her voice was beautiful, indeed. Yet, peace did not come. "My pen shall bring my satisfaction!" And she wrote a lyric to babyhood ... but the yearning only grew deeper, the heart hunger more intense. Then, because she must, she heeded her heart and ran to the child. As the child pressed its face against her own, she felt the merging of two great needs and she knew that of all the gifts in her possession, none could take the place of this new found creativity . . . the gift of motherhood. "Come, little one," she said. "My gifts shall be your gifts for what is a painting without a warm hearth over which to display it? What is a lullaby without a baby to hold close to my breast as I sing? Can the tones of a violin ring true when the heartstrings are drawn taut with yearning? Only, together can we make of our simple lyric a sonnet of life." And as she laid her gifts before the child, the girl was sure that she heard the angels sing. They were singing glad hosannas because another small spirit had gained a passport to mortality. THE QUEST That still, small voice kept saying, "Not enough, Time is the fiber from which life is spun. Grasp every moment, live it purposely If you would know the content when day is done." And so I set about to find the quest That would assure my greatest happiness. The world seeks beauty, so with eager pen I framed a lyric, an exultant song, And as I sent it on its tuneful way My heart knew happiness ... but not for long. With night's approach complacency had fled. "Not yet enough," the voice within me said. "I'll paint a picture, this my gift shall be, Earth's various moods interpreted by me." With pigments rare, I copied field and bough. Surely my heart would know contentment now. And joy was sweet, but when the day was through, That small voice whispered, "Not enough from you." One day, I took a child by the hand It seemed that God, himself looked down and smiled As prayerfully I sought to understand His needs. I laid my gifts before the child. At last, in answer to my soul's demanding I've found the peace that passeth understanding. From the book, "The Little Things, " by Mirla Greenwood Green-wood Thay; Permission ir?"-h ," h'hhwtr Co. in bottles." "The Evans' beans are not," said Mama. "Up now, quickly!" We carried Marie's bottles across the road to our kitchen and scalded them. We picked basket after basket of beans. We sat on our screened back porch and snapped beans. Mama was in the hot kitchen canning them as fast as we had some ready. It didn't matter that we thought some were too old. They would be nourishing when summer greens were gone, Mama explained. When Marie came home, after gathering up her little children, she found her bean patch harvested har-vested and bottles and bottles of beans to store against a cold white winter. We grumbled as we stooped to pick the beans, and we groaned as we swished away summer flies while we snapped the beans; but being young and experienced in sharing such family ventures, ven-tures, we sang songs and shared stories as bean after bean found its way into its winter storage place. And somehow now when I think of our small town and our screened back porch, of summer gardens and Mama, I think of that day we picked our neighbor's beans. And each time I remember, my mother grows wiser and dearer. -Mabel Gabbott Copyright 1976 by Book-craft, Book-craft, Inc., Salt Lake City. Used by permission. |