My Mother

Many times I cried when Mothers’ Day came around because I felt so guilty that I wasn't a “good enough” mother—wishing that I could be a better mother. Now my children are all grown and most have children of their own. Now I can see past my own inadequacies of motherhood, and I can enjoy Mother’s Day again. Today, I can recall my own mother and reflect on her traits and what a good mother she was.

My Mother

My mother was a very soft-spoken woman, with a gentleness that was obvious to all. She never yelled at her children, but we always felt guilty that we had disappointed her when we did something wrong or we didn't meet her expectations. She was a very intelligent woman and very creative and imaginative. She would often tell us stories that kept us waiting breathlessly for the end.

She painted landscape pictures and you could sit next to her while she painted and talk to her and she’d never rush you to finish your questions or thoughts. She patiently waited until you got up your courage to say what you wanted to say (or to ask). Then she answered thoughtfully. You could talk to her about anything. Sometimes when she was painting a scene, she would get frustrated with how it was going and say, “I’m going to burn this whole mountainside up and do something else with it.” Then with a couple of strokes of her brush, all the trees, would disappear, and she’d ask you what you thought should grow there, and she’d begin to create another 
type of scene. Once she painted a beautiful valley, but then put a bank of fog over the bottom of the valley so you couldn't see what was there. I used to ask her what was under the cloud and she’d say, “You decide what you think is under the cloud. Is it as lake? Is it a forest? It is a meadow? What do you want it to be?” I liked that painting the most because I could imagine anything underneath the fog.

Once, I convinced my youngest sister (13 years younger than me) that if you knew the magic words and said them three times as you twirled around, you could fly into the picture and find out what was beneath the fog. I found out later that she tried for years to do that! She had believed me.

Mother was a very spiritual person. She had great faith and love for others. She always looked for the underdog—the person left out or one who seemed to feel uncomfortable, and then she’d go up and talk to them and make them feel welcome. She was not comfortable in leadership positions or speaking in public. She had grown up in a Danish immigrant household, and had quit high school to work as the school janitor to support her family so she had never gotten her high school diploma. In many ways she felt “inferior” to others, but in the ways that matter, she was very competent, intelligent, loving and very thoughtful of others.

She would never gossip about others, and would never listen to others gossip. It was something she

Mother

didn’t tolerate. She always said kind things about others, and was never judgmental. She was always saying how nice someone’s dress was or how she enjoyed their talk, or complimented them on little things.

My mother was about five foot seven feet tall, slender, with naturally curly dark hair. (Since I am five foot two inches, I always felt very envious.) She loved the outdoors and especially hiking. My dad worked at Hill Air Force Base in Utah and got off work about 3:30 p.m. so she’d often make a packed dinner in the summer and we’d go up to Mueller Canyon with our lunch when Dad got home, and hike the trails until we ate our packed dinner. Now Mueller Canyon (which is less than four miles from our old home) is a state or county park and costs $10.00 a car to get into plus a permit to eat there. But back then it was something we did all the time—and we loved to do it.

My mother wasn't perfect—she had a temper—and my

Grandmother Hansen

Grandmother Hansen, her mother-in-law, could bring it out. One time we had all gone down to Bryce Canyon with Grandmother Hansen.  We were all so excited to hike down the canyon, because to us, that was the best part of the trip. Dad was carrying my three-year-old sister, Janet, on his shoulders, and mother was preparing six-month-old Will for the hike. That was when Grandmother Hansen hit the roof! I don’t recall the actual words that were said, but the meaning was clean—ladies don’t climb down mountains with tiny babies. Babies are too fragile to be dragged down trails in the heat and dust! Mother tried to explain that they did it all the time—they loved to do it. Grandmother stood firm; mother would hike down the canyon with Will over her dead body!

I remember watching the altercation with wide frightened eyes. My quiet, soft-spoken mother never got upset. She never argued with anyone over anything. I’d often wished she would stand up to my father, who was very domineering and overbearing, but she never demurred. Yet, here she was standing up to Grandmother Hansen.  I looked to my father to see if he would support mother or grandmother; he mumbled something about his mother being right. Mother and grandmother strode angrily went back to the car with tiny baby Will.

I can’t remember much about the hike. I’m sure everyone else had a wonderful time, but all I could

Bryce Canyon

think about was what was happening in the car at the rim of the canyon. Was Grandmother yelling at Mother like my father always did when someone disagreed with him? Was Mother crying? Was it hot in the car? Was the baby crying? Finally we got back to the top and I ran to the car.

Mother and Grandmother sat there silently starring out the front window. Little Will was asleep on the back seat. I was afraid to ask anything at the time, just gave Mother a big hug and told her all about the hike. Later I found out that she and Grandmother had sat there without speaking the whole time we were gone.  I gained a lot of respect for my mother that day!

My mother had her first bout with cancer when I was 14 years old, right after Will was born. She gave birth to my youngest sister Ann three years later. She had her second mastectomy when I was 18 years old, and she never recovered. The last two years of her life were very difficult and she passed away when I was 20 years old. I was one of the three oldest children. My oldest brother was married and had a baby, and my next oldest brother served a two-and-a-half-year mission to Denmark, but he was home and just married when Mother died. My four younger siblings, ages 17, 14, 11, and almost eight-years of age when Mother died don’t have the many memories of mother that we older siblings had.

My sisters (from left), Ann, Coleen, Janet, myself with my dad

One of the hardest thing about being a mother was not having a mother I could call for advice when I had questions about mothering. That was the same, I am sure, for my three sisters, also. So we at times called each other and asked how to do things. As the oldest mother with the oldest children, I had to blaze the way. It was no easier for any of us sisters because we never lived near each other while our children were growing up, so we had no one to share the problems of motherhood with. Even the two times my husband served in Vietnam, and I went home to Utah to have a baby each time he was overseas, my older sisters were living elsewhere, and my youngest sister was a teenager. So I didn’t have a husband, a mother, or even sisters with me when I delivered my babies—but I did have my Aunt Ruth, my mother’s sister, who was very dear to me.

My dad and my mother

I am not very much like my mother in some ways; I am loud where she was soft-spoken. She was calm, and I am hyperactive. She had a peaceful spirit about her, and I definitely don’t. But we both love the Lord and have faith. We both love to hike, and read, and tell stories, and do things with our children. We are both creative in different ways—she loved to paint and I love to write. We both love music. 

We are both mothers who tried the best to be good mothers.