Florence Lorene Pulley Peterson
Letters to Mother
Letters from family members written in 1993 as a tribute to Florence
Dearest Mom,
It’s been a long time, but I still have a lot of wonderful memories of you. I want you to know that I am very thankful to have known you before Ruby, Emma and all the others, since 1910. I remember living at American Fork and going to school with Frances, living at your folks’ home. I remember living in the old home on the hill before Val Verda.
I will always remember how you could always make things do. We hauled all our water in a barrel and grubbed lots of oak brush. Lots of rough times and some good times.
I remember a few spankings you gave me, but I always earned them. As many years have gone by, I get a greater love and appreciation for you and al that you did for me. I am sure Dad loved you very much. I wasn’t home much after 1920, but was always glad to visit and was always welcome.
I am very thankful to have had two wonderful mothers. I know you are very happy now with your loved ones who have left this world’s problems.
With the greatest love and fondest memories.
Your oldest son,
Joe
My Dearest Mother Florence,
It has been a long time since you took me to teach me to grow and learn how to be a good girl. My mother was called home when I was just a baby. You were so wonderful to ake me, Eva, Glen and Joe to be a wonderful mother to us after my dad had married you.
There are so many things that you did for us, as little children we were. As we got big enough to do things you taught me how to dress myself and to always put things where they were to be.
We lived on a dry farm. Had pigs, chickens for eggs to eat, meat to eat, cows o have milk to drink and butter to churcn and eat. You put the cream in a big bottle and we would roll the bottle of cream to each other on the floor until it would turn into butter and butter milk. Then you would put salt in the butter and we have it to eat on our bread until time to churn again.
You would always make such good bread. We would all want the crust, so you cut the bread so that we all had crust.
We had more brothers and sisters as time went on. We were never to say half-brothers and sisters, and always had to call you mother. You were so good to us all. We all had to work and go to school. Mother, you were such a wonderful cook, always made such good food for us. After the meal was over, we always had to clear and clean up the table and do the dishes. We didn’t like that. We wanted to play first, but no, the dishes had to be done.
Well, Ruby and Priscilla always had to go to the toilet. We had an outside toilet. We called it the Dunnigan, just a little house with a door on it. Well, I got tired of them always going to the Dunnigan, so I went out and picked up a rock and threw it at them. I hit Priscilla on the head. Well, I didn’t do that anymore. And they didn’t go there again until the dishes were all taken care of.
Then we had a wood stove. We had to carry in all the wood to keep the fire going and to heat all the hot water that we needed. We had to learn how to chop wood. Joe and Glen had to help us girls. Oak brush is very hard to cut. But we all managed fine after mother and dad told us how to do it.
We didn’t have water in the house. We had to carry it in in buckets. We had a wash pan to wash our hands and faces in. We heated the water on the wood stove. Mother had a big boiler that we filled with water on the stove to get it hot for mother to wash all of our clothes. She taught us how to scrub clothes on the scrubbing board to get the dirt out, and then hang them out on the line to dry. They we had to iron them with a heavy iron heated on the stove. Then hang them up good.
We didn’t have any money those days. We all had on help on the farm. We planted everything that we wanted to eat. It was good. The neighbors all helped each other harvest he crops cause we didn’t have any money to pay each other.
We all went to school. Mother, you made all of the clothes we had to wear. You made our petticoats and bloomers out of sugar and grain sacks and salt and feed sacks. We all looked as good as other school kids.
We had to wear long wool stockings to school. We had a long way to walk, so when we got away from where mother could see us, we older girls would roll our stockings down to our ankles. Then when we came home, we would roll them up, so mother wouldn’t see. Well, one day we forgot. No, we didn’t do it again.
Yes, we would sneak a little color on our lips and cheeks. But mother found out about that, too. She was so worried.
We all had fun together. Each night we all sang and played together. Mothr and dad would rock the little ones to sleep, and we would all sing church songs together.
Then we all got big. Joe and Glen went to work herding sheep. Eva went to work. The rest of us went out to pick fruit and vegetables to earn money. Mother went with us at times. She always picked more than we could. But we all worked together.
Everyone wo lived in Val Verda were neighbors together. We all worked together and played together. We met at each others’ house and had a dancing party. We had phonograph records for music and the mothers would make ice cream and cake for us to eat. We had plays, dances, and all sang together. We were all home before twelve o’clock each time. All the good Val Verda people had lots of fun and helped each other.
As time went on, Joe, Glen and Eva all got married in the temple and moved away.
Oh yes, another thing that happened: our house burned down. Once mother and dad left us home and went to someplace. Mother old Priscilla to cook some potatoes and save the potato water so she could mix bread. Well, we were all playing and we forgot, then went to bed. I asked Priscilla if she cooked the potatoes. O, she didn’t. We got up. I got the potatoes to peal. She fixed the fire. Well, it wouldn’t start, so she got the coal oil can to start it and it exploded and the house caught fire. We got the kids all out of bed and outside, then missed James. He was in the iron bed, and I went after him. I got burned bad on my hands and arms, and my hair; but saved James’ life.
Boy, were we all thankful that no one got burned or hurt, except me. The burns got well and my hair grew back in. Then mother and dad came home. It was a bad time. Our house and everything gone. We lived in the garage. The neighbors all helped out.
Well, time passed, and I decided to get married, but not in the temple. That hurt mom and dad. After a year we decided to go to the temple. Dad and mother helped us, and Mr. and Mrs. Andy Gwynn. After a year’s time we had our first child, Louie.
Mother, you and dad helped me so much. Living was rough those days. Theares worked at Cudahy Packing, a good job. We did good, thanks to you and dad.
Mother, you were a wonderful mother to me, and I love you and dad very much.
Bye, bye.
Ruth
Dear Mother,
Although my thoughts aren’t always as clear and coherent as they used to be, there are some memories of you that remain vivid.
I often think of how much I appreciate what you did for all of us kids, whether there were ten or one, all were taken care of.
I think back fondly on the times we had in Val Verda with all our friends and neighbors who cooperated to make things better for everyone.
The thing I remember most about you is how hard you worked. You always had us kids working too. Like the time you took me out on the sidehill and sat me down to pick black currents. I’ll never forget how loaded they were, and how big – the size of the end of my little finger. I picked until they were all gone.
There didn’t seem to be much time for fun, except the times some of the kids would ake off their clothes and swim in the water trough.
After Dad died, it seemed like you had more time for the flower garden and being available to help others. Mos important, you didn’t act like some who lose a mate who run around trying to cure something in themselves. You never had that problem.
I love you, Mother, and think about you a lot.
Your oldest daughter,
Ruby
Dearest Mother:
I just re-read a letter you sent me dated 14 August 1967, which closed “I am real lucky to feel as good as I do, and real fortunate to have such a lovely family. And I appreciate each and every one of you. Thanks again for everything.”
What a wonderful mother you were, always so kind to everyone and such a great example in raising such a large family. You were always there when we needed you with your magic hands and able mind and the right answers to most of our questions. Dad used to call us “Duz” because you were like the soap advertisement: DUZ does everything.”
Some of your sisters said, “Florence is the best cook in the world!” But we already knew that. You could always make something out of nothing (try that sometime).
When we were out picking produce for the market or even working down to Charie Crismans, you were always way ahead of us in the rows and of course, you picked twice as much.
You are a great teacher, Mom, and we learned so much from you each day. You were a great seamstress and made nearly everything we wore. You also had a green thumb. Everything ou planted would grow.
How generous you were. No one ever came to visit us whether young or old they’d never leave without you filling their hands and arms full of something. And I think we all inherited some of those great traits.
And Mom, along with your’s and Dad’s strong faith in God we were taught many wonderful examples of being good members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, by knowing where we came from and why we are here and where we are going, and many more wonderful things to help us on our way and to help build this great kingdom of God.
You’ve certainly set the example for all of us to help and show us the way. For all these things I gratefully than you and love you deeply.
I wish you could write again soon.
Lovingly yours,
Priscilla
Dear Mom Peterson,
The first time I met you was when I was about 15 years old while picking peas on Eldred Irving’s farm. Mr. Irving was my uncle and my mother and I were picking for him also. You and my mother seemed to know one another and could pick peas very fast, but you also could carry on a very interesting conversation at the same time. It was fun for me to hear you, but I couldn’t quite keep up with you so that I could all you two said. Some of the things I can still remember, some to be repeated and some not. However, both of you made my days of picking happy ones to remember.
It was some three years later that I really had a chance to get acquainted with you. Your son, James, had me come for Sunday dinner. I remember how hard you worked and because of the lack of water you had just a small garden close by your house. The rest of the farm was a dry far, but the fruit and vegetables were a very good flavor.
It seemed you could make good appetizing food out of nothing at anytime. I remember how ou would put the fruit in the bottles to cook and go out to pick more to send to market, and it was always done just right wen you came in the house again
Your turkey dressing was the best in the world and try as hard as I could, mine would never be as good. Then one time while at your home for Thanksgiving, we made the dressing together and I learned how to make it as good as yours (at least that’s what James said).
Then there was the time you came to our home in Oregon. It was in October. You went out with me to pick red raspberries for breakfast the next morning. When you saw how the berries were hanging on the bushes, you just had to pick all of them so that you could make some raspberry jam to take home. I remember we filled all of the empty pint bottles I had and then went to Adrian to buy 2 dozen more. We made enough jam to fill them all. You were so excited and I was so happy to know that you needed the berries. Those berries would have to be picked from June 24 until frost every year. How I wish we had some now.
I also remember the way you could see something pretty in the stores, come home and make something just like it for a lot less money. You taught me how to do a lot of things after you had figured out how to do them yourself.
I admired you after grandpa (Bennet) passed away. How hard you tried to keep a happy face, even when you were down. I know now how hard that must have been for you. Especially when you were so sick, you always appreciated all that was done for you by expressing the words, “Thank you.” I also remember how happy you were to have a church house within walking distance.
These are just a few simple things that I loved about you. You were a good teacher, and I thank you very much.
All my love,
LaVon
Dear Mom,
I’m grateful for the opportunity to dictate some of my memories of you. I’d write them myself, but I’ve had kind of a tough time lately. Which reminds me of some of your tough times, and the terrible headaches you used to have. They were so bad that the pain left purple spots on your head.
And the mention of your head reminds me of three or four times when I was a teenager that you let me comb your hair with a fine-toothed comb and comb out what you called “scurf” from some scaley places on your scalp. Then you’d comb out your long hair and twist it into a bob at the back of your head. Seeing you with your hair let down revealed you as a different person from what I was used to seeing. I felt privileged that you’d let me comb your hair. I thought it was so beautiful.
I remember how meticulous you were about your appearance, when you had the time. But I also remember you in bib overalls, a blue denim shirt and men’s shoes, doing a man’s work. I don’t remember a day in my life when I could accomplish as much as you did.
My eyes fill with tears and my throat chokes as I think of how you taught me what a wonderful place this world is to live in. You taught me to appreciate a dry farm on a side hill and its potential, if we worked hard enough. Somehow through watching you, I learned also about the potential of a boy who had the opportunity of being taught by you.
So I’m grateful for this opportunity to thank you, Mother Dear, not only for your teachings, but for the teachings of a loving Father in Heaven, whose teachings are so akin to yours. I thank you for these teachings which I have lived by, and for all of those unexpressed.
I love you. I love you.
Your son,
Ted
Dear Mom,
I haven’t written to you in a long time, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about you.
I know it must have been pretty difficult to keep up with my travels, especially since I’ve been “on the go” for quite a few years. In 1942 when the trio went away to Chicago to sing with the Jan Garber Band, I guess you thought you had lost me for sure! I didn’t realize your concern was so deep until I recently re-read some of the letters you wrote to me.
I remember so many things about you, Mom. Just a few of them: You were the hardest worker I’ve ever seen. From you we learned how to work and not to quit until the job was done, and then there was another job waiting and you were never without work to do.
You taught us to accept responsibility and to take care of each other. You could make anything taste good – make something out of nothing and never go to the store. I remember your love for beautiful, natural things and your contempt for anything immoral or immodest. You were a real artist and could make anything from rugs to ball gowns. You had no time for anything that wasn’t a necessity. It wasn’t until your later years, when you had a little time, that you made your beautiful flowers, pillows, handkerchiefs, quilts and dolls.
When I married Jim in 1944, my travels were intensified. We moved every 2 ½ years. You visited us in Monterrey, CA; New London, CN; and Norfolk, VA. Do you remember when you came to Connecticut? Jim was serving with the Submarine Force as an anti-submarine pilot. I was nine months pregnant with Kim. The Nautilas, the first nuclear-powered submarine, had just come into port. A special invitation was issued to the staff wives to come aboard for a guided tour. I could not go because of my advanced pregnancy, so Jim took you. After the tour, you actually went to sea and submerged for quite some time. I was so excited for you. Upon your return, I could hardly wait to hear all about it, but you were as composed as though it was something you did every day of your life.
You met your first lobster in Connecticut. We went to the officer’s club where Jim ordered lobster. They put large bibs around our necks and place these large red, many-legged critters before us. Our silverware included nut crackers and picks. Again, you were composed and handled yours better than us veterans. I could write a volume about you, Mom.
I’m proud to be a daughter of Florence Lorene Pulley Peterson, and I love you very much.
Jeanette
Dear Mom,
I’ve thought of some of your outstanding characteristics:
Consistent, assured, dependable. You seemed to be able to make good choices 99% of the time, which, in my book, is a very good thing.
Talented and artistic. You could make many things. You could make a dress without a pattern if you could just see a picture of what was wanted.
Mechanical. You could fix most anything.
Hard worker. You did everything well. If it was worth the effort, it was worth your best effort.
Thoughtful. You always thought of others first, and yourself last.
Confidence and self-esteem. When you got up in the morning you always fixed your hair and got ready for the entire day. It was important to you that you were clean and neat, even during and after hard work. I fixed your hair as long as I was at home or lived close. Some years before you died, you made me promise that when you died I would be sure your hair looked the way you liked it and that you didn’t look unnatural with make-up. You took very good care of your body, the best you could. Jane and I were sure we kept that promise I made to you.
You didn’t show affection in front of people. I always knew you loved me, but I think my first realization of how much you loved me was when I made a very poor choice and married too young. You went in the bathroom and shut the door and cried and cried for more than an hour. I knocked on the door and begged you to talk to me. I could hear you crying and all you would say was “Not now.” I remember how broken hearted I felt that I had hurt you so deeply.
The next time I became aware of how deep your love was for me was during childbirth. I was in labor for many hours with Jim, and you were here wiping my face with a cold cloth. I remember looking at you and asking if you were sure I could stand this, and the assurance I felt as you said, “You can and it won’ last too much longer.” Then you said, “I wish I could do it for you.”
All my life, and even now, I still feel your love. I haven’t always felt your approval, when I made big mistakes, but you seemed to be able to love me always.
When I had physical problems at a young age, your tenderness, concern, and caring for me were always present. Even though you had a strong, healthy body you were very compassionate. You seemed always to know the right thing to do for me. I can never thank you enough for that.
Prayer. I remember your prayers. You were very straight-forward in asking Heavenly Father for help in specific things. I think as a young child I learned to trust in Heavenly Father because of your great trust in his will.
You were a really great grandmother. My boys think you make cinnamon rolls every day. You always had things for them to eat, and boys think that is very important.
I really trusted your wisdom. If my boys were with you and you corrected or disciplined them, I felt sure it would be just.
You were fair. You had a good sense of justice. We could not debate you into changing your principles. You were pretty set and sure in this area. That was very good for my personality. You saved me a lot of wasted time. I knew early on that those basic truths were set in stone with you. As I grew older and had a family of my own, I began to realize how beneficial these things were in my life.
You had a strong testimony. As a young woman I remember being very surprised that you were frightened and nervous about giving a talk the bishop had asked you to give, so much so that you were sick. That really surprised me because to me you always seemed able to handle anything, things much more difficult than giving a talk.
Growing up all my friends’ parents were much younger than you and Dad. You were more the age of their grandparents. I remember thinking and being worried that you might die. As I got older, these fears weren’t as strong as when I was little.
You were always, almost always, supportive of my piano lessons and practice. You sent eggs to the Lundbergs for lessons and then money also. Every once in a while, the practicing was too much for you and you would say, “How many more times are you going to go over that one part?” I don’t blame you.
I could write volumes about you. I think of you often.
My John had a blanket you made for him when he was a little boy – a large, nice, warm blanket. I has only in recent years that Cheryl was able to get him to give it up. It was totally threadbare and falling apart, but he felt your love through that blanket. Whenever he was sick or had the flu, it was that blanket that wrapped him in your love.
I love you. Thanks for being my Mom.
Dorothy
Dear Mom,
You once told about the origin of your unwavering faith. When you were three years old, your family was struck by the influenza epidemic which swept the country in 1893. The toll was greatest among the children. Several neighbors and young cousins had died. You and your two-year-old brother, Charles Henry, were stricken. For some time you waivered between life and death.
Then the elders came and administered to you to save you from death. They anointed and blessed you. As soon as they lifted their hands from your head, you got right up from the bed and were immediately healed. It was then that you saw the coffin with little Charles, who had already succumbed, and watched as he was carried out for burial.
From that moment on you never doubted the power of the priesthood nor questioned the divine mission of the Restored Church. You fervently believed the promises of salvation and eternal reward. Life’s problems, no matter how intense, could be endured because they were temporary diversions at worst, and vehicles for growth at best. Your actions reflected this conviction in every circumstance. You were just what you said you were. You were straight as an arrow, inside and out.
While this undeviating faith constantly directed your life, it didn’t give you much patience with others who were less convicted and dedicated than you. I suppose that has been one of the most difficult reconciliations I have had to make in growing up, but looking back, it’s easy to see all the good and positive influences you had on me, and many others. I read all the letters written to you in this compilation while preparing them to be printed, and have learned how much I share with the writers, and with all your family, from your influence. It is profound!
There is something I have learned since you’ve been gone that I want to tell you. Remember when you were sick that we all took turns spending time with you and caring for you at home? It was embarrassing for you to have to rely on us for everything. I’m afraid I didn’t make it any easier on you because I really couldn’t accept completely the fact that you weren’t fully independent. I even wondered: “How dare you get sick and need to be taken care of by us? You’re the one who’s supposed to take care of us and encourage us, like you always have. How can you ever expect e to care for you as well as you cared for me?”
So there were times when I was supposed to be helping you when I was very mixed up, confused, and even angry. I’m afraid that my attitude kept me from being as compassionate toward you as you deserved when you really needed it. What a painful waste.
But here’s what happened recently that helps me think I’ve learned something: Ted was very ill and found himself in need of immediate help late at night when his family could not respond. He telephoned me to come. I discovered I had no qualms or reservations about going, nor about doing whatever was needed to help him. I thought about you and realized this was how I truly wanted to feel about helping you, but wasn’t mature enough at the time to express. I guess our judgment can never get ahead of our experience. I’m counting on you to understand and forgive me.
So without wishing to leave here prematurely, I do long to see you again. In anticipation of that I often picture your smiling face in my mind’s eye, and hear your laugh in my imagination, particularly when I contemplate my children and grandchildren. I know your smile is for me and the, and for all your family.
Thanks for everything, especially what you gave knowing I would likely not understand or appreciate it at the time. I think I’m beginning to get it a little bit.
I love you.
Benny
Hi Mom,
Come on in. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I think about you all the time and feel you are close by. I’ve got so much to show you and so many people for you to see. By the way, what have you been doing?
Kay and Steve are living in La Mesa. Debi is 13 years old and Mikey is 5. They are such a great family. Karen and Tom live about 3 miles from us here in Vista. Kristen is 8 years old, Loren is 6 and Derek is 4. We see each other almost every day. It’s nice to have them so close. Kay, Mikey and Debi come up almost every week and we do crafts and just visit. Paul lives in Los Angeles. He comes to visit when he gets a chance. He and I just returned from visiting Andy and Carol and their family of 5: Aaron 6, Stevey 4, Mandy 3, Ryan 2, and Eric 3 months. They live in Meadow, U. It is such a good place for them to raise all those little ones.
Oh, Mom, you haven’t met Bob. He feels he knows you because I have told him so much about you. We have an acre of land where we plant a large garden and have many fruit trees. He is so good to be with.
Karen and I put up pickled beets the other day. We make mustard pickles and chili sauce, too. Needless to say, you are in my thoughts often.
The grandkids are threatened with getting “skinned alive” and “pungled,” are told that “their hands will wash,” and they quit whatever they are doing when I clear my throat. You live on through all of us.
I’ve crocheted enough doilies to cover the world, made quilts, Afgans, etc., etc. The hands never stop. Kay and Karen are so artistic, as well as their children.
Mom, you must walk through the yard with Bob and me. We enjoy it so much. We have such a variety of plants and flowers. Bob started some grape cuttings for us that he got from the “Old Place.” They are doing well. It is a challenge to keep things under control. We work at it continually.
I know you have to go now, but come back again. You are never far away from me because you are so much a part of me and mine. We hope to find out how you have been spending your time some day. Tell Dad hello!
Love,
Jane
Dear Grandma,
I really remember very little about you. I was young when we lived in Utah, and the only thig I can really remember about you is that you were sweet. There always seemed to be countless cousins at your house, consequently I spent my time with them rather than with you. Later, after we moved to Oregon, I mostly stayed home to take care of the chores when my parents went to visit you.
I can remember Grandpa Peterson coming to Oregon several times, but for some reason, I cannot recall you coming with him. Surely, id Grandpa came, you came too; but whether you did or not is irrelevant, for my memory refuses to allow me that insight. I simply remember you as a sweet, kind grandma who made me feel that you loved me.
I do have one clear memory: My daughter, Vicki, had just graduate, so in celebration of the event, and foreseeing little time left to be together as a complete family, we took her and our other five children (Brad had not been born yet) to Lagoon. Of course, we had allotted time to visit friends and family, so it was only natural to take them to see you, their great grandmother they had never really known.
You welcomed us in with your natural warmth and enthusiasm and seemed to genuinely enjoy visiting with each of us. You had a huge cat which was as much a watchdog as it was company for you, which kept us entertained and amused. It would run swiftly across the back of the sofa, slip down behind it, wait till the children least expected it, then jump out at them, nearly scaring the life out of them. As much as they enoyed it, I think the smaller ones almost feared for their lives where the cat was concerned. Margery did, for sure.
When it was time for us to leave, you did your best to detain us, as though you knew such a precious time would never come again for any of us. You made a point to give each of the children something to remember you by, whether a paper flower or a pillow made with washcloths, there was something tangible with which to remember their Grandma’s love. And to this day, we all do.
Love,
Farrell
Dear Grandma Peterson,
Thanks for this opportunity to express one or two thoughts about you.
Because we lived in St. George, the love and acceptance I felt from you came after a long ride in the car. I always looked forward to visiting because I felt accepted and loved when I was around you. My early memories of your house are of huge trees with round waxy leaves, white, round gravel in the driveway and sandy dirt in the garden. A long lane with a curve in the end. Wind in the trees and the sound of leaves. A barn! Animals! “Chores” that were like what my friends did who lived on farms. Hauling hay from the field by Jake and Dorothy’s house to the barn, milking a real cow with Ben. Firecracker rockets made of baby food cans. Digging a hole for a basketball backstop alongside the driveway. Flowers. Gardens. My first taste of gooseberries. My first experience making butter.
The garage was like a museum. Grandpa’s tools, the stove, the workbench, the farming implements – all gathered into one magical and mysterious spot – each with a story, an answer for every question, just never enough time to ask them all. Ben’s sleeping room in the garden – the envy of every boy. An out-house!! Bees and birds unknown in my world in the desert of Southern Utah. The attic – a treasure trove of memories of a large and now distant family (my own aunts and uncles). How marvelous to have a stairway that folded right up into the ceiling. The pole with the funny end that turned the latch and opened the door to the attic. And a basement! What a coo and snug place to sleep with Ben amid your miraculous handiwork.
Cinnamon rolls with raisins that were sometimes stuck to the pan and were chewy. Discoveries of taste treats (and family traditions) of parched corn, parched wheat, popcorn made on the stove. Meals around the table that pulled away from the wall, lace tablecloth, kneeling prayers, expressions of love, stories of family adventures and characters. Fresh garden produce (tomatoes, beans, new potatoes, creamed peas), bread and pies. I learned that reputations are made and held over such things as cooking, baking, sewing and serving.
I learned of pride in family and acceptance for good works. I received encouragement in basic values and principles. I write of these memories because not only are they associated in my mind with my memories of you, Grandma Peterson, they reflect your presence and influence. A pervasive and ordering presence which radiated from your quiet commitment to Gospel values and your understanding of the legacy you were leaving with your posterity. I thank you that you loved me, encouraged me, taught me by loving praise, kind rebukes, gifts of yourself and your handiwork, and by your testimony of the gospel.
I remember how important it was to me to bring Judy to your home to meet you when we got engaged. It was important to me to show her off to you and let you know how well I had done in discovering such a treasure who was from a similar mold. I don’t expect I ever told you how important it was to me that you both seemed to enjoy each other so much. Only now, as our oldest two children wed, do I begin to appreciate the power of the gifts of your life. I shed a tear or two as I make my own discovery of what has always been known to others before me and will be discovered by others who follow.
Thank you for your divine vision and courage and eternal commitment to true and correct principles. Thank you for the great power of your life and love.
Randy
My Dear Grandma,
Do you remember when my family came to visit you one winter, and I had a really gross ear infection? Even though I loved your freezing cold basement with the huge, black beetles skittering into the dark corners and the exquisite stored flower arrangements, I needed to sleep upstairs with you in your bed where it was warm. (When I did get to sleep in your basement, I remember having to do my breathing under the quilts to try and warm up).
I crawled into bed and watched you undo your hair and begin to brush it out and braid it. I was amazed how long it was . . . almost to your waist as I recall. Then you’d put those clippies in to maintain those waves that framed your face. You knelt and said your prayers, and then in the middle of the night (it was really 5 a.m., I think), the whole bed started to rock and shake violently. I thought the end of this life had come. As I turned to see what was going on, there you were, doing your knee-to-chest jerking exercises. Now be careful not to hurt your back (or granddaughter) type of knee-to-chest jerking exercises. You were really into it. I don’t know how old you were, Grandma, but you definitely had silver hair and just a few wrinkles. You are incredible!
Your cinnamon rolls and stringy meat pot roasts will always be my favorites. Memories at your house are a treat for me and provided roots for a kid who moved around a lot.
I love you. Thanks for being my Grandma.
Love,
Diane
P.S. If you’re ever in the Dallas temple, Grandma, tap me on the shoulder. I’ll know it’s you.
Dear Grammy,
In some mystical way time passes, and once again I am caught by surprise at how long it has been since I took the time to write and tell you I love you. But then again, isn’t that just like us: caught up in the momentum of life and forgetting to thank those precious few who have had profound impact.
Grammy, only now am I beginning to understand how significant a role you played in my young life. I can’t begin to tell you all the thoughts that are going through my mind. From the beginning of my memory, you are there.
I can’t help but smile as I remember you teaching me to carry chickens from the chicken coop to the chopping block. In my mind’s eye I can see you now, with two chickens in each hand, walking briskly, giving instructions all the way as well as stern encouragement, as I dragged my one, kicking and screaming, pecking and scratching chicken to its appointed place. What an experience! You certainly knew how to get the best out of a small boy. You instilled within me an understanding of work that has never failed me.
Those early morning wake ups with an hour of hoeing before breakfast were the cause of much grumbling, but the source of great learning. I still cannot figure out how you, at your age, could hoe three rows to my one, and not even break a sweat. I also noticed that occasionally you would hoe a few weeds in my row. At the time I thought you were giving me a not-so-subtle hint to speed up; but now I realize you were helping me to hold my own. Anyway, I can’t remember the many hours you let me work for and with you. By the way, how can I thank you for giving me the chance to earn 50 cents, over and over again, as I pushed that antique mower around your back yad. What about those endless piles of weeds we pulled! The best part of working at your house was that at the end, there was always a cinnamon roll or some other treat that had been -prepared specifically to recognize good performance, in fact, even not-so-good performance from time to time. Thanks, Grammy, for teaching me the value and internal reward of hard work well done.
Grammy, oh now I miss the feather bed in the basement. I can still feel the warm comfort in the winter and the coolness in the heat of summer. I always felt welcome. One of the best things about staying at your house was I got to play with all the toys I had lost on the walk from my house to yours. Remember, you said that if I dropped a toy and you found it, it belonged to you. There in your basement was a good portion of my toys and those of my brothers and friends. Thanks for taking good care of them.
Staying at your house wasn’t all fun and games. Bath time was particularly concerning. It seemed that no matter how hard I scrubbed, it wasn’t good enough. After all my effort, the dreaded scrub down always followed. I was certain that my skin had been pealed from my body on more than one occasion. I hated when that happened. I am almost sure that my hair loss is directly related to the scrubbbings you gave me.
Do you remember the famous grasshopper incident? One afternoon after Primary, somehow I found myself at your house. In Primary class we had learned about the pioneers and their difficult journey to the valley. My curiosity was piqued by my teacher’s insistence that some pioneer children had to eat grasshoppers, as food was scarce. I asked you if it were true, knowing I could count on you to verify my belief that the teacher was in error. To my amazement, you confirmed the lesson and then told me that if I would gather a few, you would show me how to properly fry a grasshopper. Still skeptical, I caught a bunch (no small task, I might add), and returned to the kitchen with a whole handful. You put some oil in a pan and made a belief out of a small boy as you fried a dozen or so right before my eyes. I do not remember whether you actually ate one or not. All I know for sure is that as I stared at the one you handed me, pioneer children or not, there was no way I was eating that thing. The overall effect was a lifetime testimony of the trials the pioneers endured, a good recipe for deep fried grasshopper, as well as a severe dislike for any hopping insect.
Grammy, do you still watch for the first robins in the Spring? I remember so well your counsel to me as, BB gun in hand I would stalk the orchard, you always insisted that I leave the robins alone. Frankly, I wish you had told me to leave all the birds alone, but to you the robin was special.
Do you recall the time that my brother and I watched a fight between a hawk and a robin? A hawk had violated a robin’s nest, and in short order was being chased from branch to branch by a furious mother. My brother and I stood with the BB gun, looking up and pondering the argument above when you came flying out of the house yelling “Shoot it! Shoot it!” The two of us stood dumbfounded as you grabbed the gun from our hands and pumped three or four rapid fire shots into the fray. The BBs had no effect, but I am certain that your ferocious reprimand, and perhaps some of your words, singe the hawk’s feathers and he departed, leaving the robin in your protective care. I remember how disappointed you were that we did not take some action. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do. Besides, it was shaping up to be a good fight.
I know that is not the only time I disappointed you, but at least on that occasion I avoided the deadly thimble punishment. A thump on the head with the ever-resent thimble was a reminder that the words, actions or behavior were not acceptable. Some of my brothers have permanent knots on their heads from this simple but effective punishment.
By the way, how’s Cocoa? Does he still curl up at your feet and purr? He was the best mouse cat I ever saw. He also had great fun chasing you balls of string, yarn, and crochet cotton around.
Grammy, how can I thank you for the many wonderful events and memories: canning everything that grows; your pansies. Dinner at your house (I particularly liked the beans. How did you cook them?); the gravy that was always too salty, but you said that’s how Petersons make it; the orchard; the grapes; the gooseberries; picking currents and peaches. How about the crafts; roses from ribbon; plastic grapes; sock monkeys; and octopuses of plastic wrap. The list is endless.
Oh, how you influenced my life. My youth would not have been the same had you not made me a seemingly endless number of flipper crotches. I knew then, as I know now, how much you loved me because of the time you spent with me in pursuit of that one branch that would make the perfect flipper. We would cover the property sometimes more than once. Every so often, you would find one and save it for me. Rubber from the old inner tube in the barn, and a stitched pad for the rock pocket would make the world’s finest flipper. When I wasn’t target practicing, the flipper was carried in my back pocket, a permanent summertime addition to my extensive wardrobe of cutoffs and tee-shirts. Grammy, thank you for taking that time at the most inconvenient of times.
Sometimes it’s the little things that are woven so tightly into the fabric of life as to be nearly imperceptible that hold us together and give us strength. That’s how I feel about you. You enriched my life by the teachings you shared with me in word and deed. My prayer is that I may share some of that with those I love. Perhaps on those days when I am my best self, your great-grandchildren may get a glimpse of you and the things you taught. I pray I may be so blessed.
Love,
Your Grandson, Jerry
Dear Grammy Peterson,
You will always be known to me affectionately as Grammy. I remember you as a handsome woman, and as sturdy as they come.
I can remember you hoeing in the hot sun and clearing out the June grass faster than any person alive. You were not only sturdy, but quick, too. Nobody could catch those slimy “bugger” night crawlers like you could. And you were quicker still with your wash cloth to scrub behind our ears if we didn’t do a good enough job ourselves. And when you were done, we could swear you had rubbed all the skin off down to the bone.
And talk about resourceful! Nobody could make a flipper crotch out of a tree branch, an old innertube, and a piece of leather like you. And you would always combine flipper crotch making with a little ecology while you were at it. Don’t shoot the robins,” you would say, “or I’ll skin ya alive.
Your trees were homes and forts to all your grandchildren. Your basement was the coolest coziest retreat. And speaking of treats, it was really living to have your hot cinnamon rolls baked fresh or to eat a jar of your peaches. Mush was standard fare for breakfast every morning, and when we knelt with you for morning prayer, we knew we’d been prayed over.
Truly, pleasant memories flood us all when we remember the times we spent with you, our loving Grammy.
Love,
Jeff
Dear Grammy,
Although many years have passed since the last time you tugged on my ears to get me in line, your influence still remains with me. The subtle and not-so-subtle lessons you taught me and the example of your life have molded and directed my life in a very positive way. You have to remember, my account of our relationship is based upon the memories of a child and stories that have been told, retold and embellished throughout the years. So don’t hold me accountable to reflect the complete truth, when most of my direct experience with you came before the age of nine.
Some of the most vivid memories of a turbulent early childhood are those surrounding the times I spent under your watchful care at “The Old Murray Place.” Just writing this I can smell a pan of cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven, and I can picture you standing in the kitchen with an apron on, frosting the latest batch. It seemed like you made them every day, at least every day that I was there. Food was a big part of my life when I would come to visit. I can still remember kneeling to pray beside the table before having a hot oatmeal-with-brown-sugar breakfast. You always told us to chew our food 32 times before we swallowed. I never could figure out how to get 32 chews in on that oatmeal. At times, when I was feeling a little rebellious, I would chew only 27 or 28 times and hope you weren’t watching out of the oner of your eye. At other times, when I was in need of support and affirmation, I would chew 35 or 40 times, hoping to win your approval.
I was always so grateful to live close to you, at least until I was six. I recall waling up to your house by way of the old dirt road. There wasn’t much trouble a five-year-old, with his older and wiser brothers, could get into walking up to Grammy’s house. We usually found some, though whether it was picking something we shouldn’t or throwing things we shouldn’t, you were always there to straighten us out. I will always be thankful for the wisdom you showed in not believing them every time my brothers would blame it on Joey.
Play time at your house was better than going to Disneyland. My favorite memory is the trees: the big, beautiful, incredible trees. Since my youth, I have returned to see those trees and it is incredible how small thy seem. In the eyes of a child, they reached high enough to touch the clouds. Many an adventure would start with the little ladder leaned up against the trunk of one of those climbing trees. I can vividly recollect being coaxed by one of my old brothers to climb higher and farther than I should have, only to require the coaching of a loving Grandma to help me get down. One thing though, I don’t remember you ever climbing the tree to get me down. Through the fear and the tears of a child, you were able to help me get myself out of trouble. What a practical help that has been to me through the years.
I am sure that having grandchildren around much of the time and especially the five Elmer boys would wear on anyone’s patience. We did act like “Little Buggers” a lot of the time and you were sure to remind us. One area that was off limits to little feet was the flower garden, unless we were pulling weeds. It was a beautiful garden with what I was sure was every flower on the planet. I can remember taking a few scoldings over violations of that rule. Sometimes you referred o us as “Little Sh_ _ s”, but we considered it in later years as a term of endearment.
When morning play time was over and lunch had fulled our hungry stomachs, it was time for naps. It didn’t matter how old you were, it was time for a nap. We were led to the basement into a world never known before or since to mankind. A world filled with boxes and boxes stuffed with ribbons and material and Styrofoam shapes piled to the ceiling like a forbidden mountain. Then there were the beds with the big heavy quilts which warmed us from the cool air of the basement. The feeling of security lying under one of those quilts and falling asleep down in that incredible storeroom of stuff is a feeling I often contemplate when recalling happy moments from my childhood.
I recall spending endless hours harassing Cocoa. That cat was not exactly the epitome of patience with young children. Sometimes it seemed like Cocoa became very scarce whenever we walked in the door. One sure way to catch some of the famous Florence Pulley ire was to get caught mistreating the cat. And though Cocoa was often-times found as the star of the flying acrobatic team, it seems like we always got into the most trouble when that darn cat couldn’t get its tail in the screen door fast enough when we were walking into the house.
If we were lucky enough to get to spend the night, a before bedtime bath was always “Big Brothers” and boy, was it dirty. Then there was the “Wash Cloth.” A bright white washcloth. One that would be sure to show all of the dirt and grunge accumulated in a hard day’s worth of paying. Sometimes it seemed like you would hide sandpaper behind that washcloth just to be sure and get the really tough stuff. You would usually start by asking whether we had scrubbed our necks and behind our ears real good. Then, just to prove that young boys can never get themselves clean, you would grab that washcloth and mumbling something like, “I’ll show you what clean is,” you would start to scrub. When the job was complete to your satisfaction you would prove your point by putting the washcloth in front of our faces to show us all the dirt we had missed. Our bath mate usually looked on in horror until his turn came, then his horror turned to reality as the process was repeated. As I got older, I was sure most of the residue on the washcloth was skin that had been rubbed off, but, boy, were we clean. I don’t think the back of my neck has been as clean in thirty years.
When I turned nine and we moved to Texas, our visits were limited to once a year during the summer. It was still fun to go and stay at “Grammy’s”, but it was nothing like the great times we had when we lived just down the little dirt road.
As I grow older and experience the oy of raising my own children, I often contemplate the influence that great individuals in my life had on me. To you, Florence Pulley Peterson, I owe a great debt of gratitude, for the tremendous role model you were to me, for the example of the work ethic that permeated your life, for the loving example of unselfish service you exemplified and for the very personal love you showed to me as your grandson. For all of these things I will be eternally grateful.
Love,
Your Grandson, Joey
Dear Grammy,
From my earliest memories, going to your house was always an exciting adventure. We might pick almonds or walnuts off your trees and then crack them open in the vise in the garage; or throw monopoly money down the outside toilet (We thought someone would think it was real money and jump down to check). Maybe we would explore the old barn, play in the playhouse, or crawl through overgrown vines to see the organ we were convinced was haunted after seeing “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.”
Living as close as we did to your house, Andy, Paul, Karen, and I were underfoot quite a bit. Though you threatened on occasion to “Cuff us one aside the head,” I don’t think you ever did. Instead, I felt loved and welcomed as we “helped” you in your work.
You were definitely a worker: planting gardens, pulling weeds, harvesting, canning, twisting ribbon for ribbon roses, sewing, hunting night crawlers, and always cooking and baking. My childhood memories of your sweet rolls, mustard and dill pickles still make my mouth water.
Grammy, you had so many amazing talents. The things you could do with your hands! (If anyone ever felt how hot your dishwater was, he’d know your hands were superhuman). I was captivated as I watched your hands shape and twist ribbon into beautiful roses, corsages, flower arrangements, or pillows. It seemed you could create beauty out of such ordinary objects. I’ll never forget how you helped me make a bunny Easter basket out of a Clorox bottle, and I still have the towel you taught me to do huck toweling on.
I have such warm memories of my time spent with you. Memories of you rocking my brothers to sleep and singing, “Who’s on the Lord’s Side? Who? Now is the time to show. We ask it fearlessly; Who’s on the Lord’s side? Who?” As I listened to you sing, I had no doubt you were on the Lord’s side. The spirit burned within me.
In this way, and countless others, Grammy, you touched my life and brought such a wonderful transformation to everything you touched. Ribbon and wire became roses; floury ingredients became sweet rolls; seeds became a lush garden; a Clorox bottle became an Easter basket; and I have become a better person.
Love,
Kay