Florence Lorene Pulley Peterson
Mother’s Purse
by Bennett Pulley Peterson
Mother’s Purse
When I was a little boy our family attended church every week, Sunday school at 10 a.m. and sacrament meeting at 7 p.m. Families sat together for the opening exercises of Sunday school, and for the whole hour and one-half of sacrament meeting. Children were supposed to be reverent (quiet) all the time. On the verge of doing something disruptive, I could be deterred by a stern glance from Mother, or a clearing of the throat of my Dad. This also worked when Dad was sitting on the stand and sent long-distance messages with his throat. I inherited the practice, with mixed results, as my children will attest There was a variation in this process of distraction that I’ll never forget. Before Cheerios, “quiet books” and activity kits reverently diverted children from worship, there was Mother’s purse. In it there were no toys, seldom a Lifesaver, and never any gum. But there was always a white handkerchief, crocheted around the edges, which she would fold into a triangle, roll the two opposite edges toward the middle, and pull the under layer backward creating a cradle with two babies we could rock. We worked hard to master the magical transition, then endlessly repeated it. Dorothy has a memory of Mother’s white handkerchiefs: Mom would pin one to Dorothy’s blouse or dress with a little gold safety pin so she’d always have a hanky handy. Another allowable activity was the silent version of the finger exercise: “Here’s the church. And here’s the steeple. Look inside and see the people. Here’s the preacher going upstairs. And here’s the preacher saying his prayers.” It took willpower not to speak, and to keep our elbows tucked in during the process to avoid jabbing those sitting on either side of us. I also seem to remember that during World War II Mom kept the ration books in her purse, containing stamps issued by the federal government to every citizen, which had to be presented to merchants when purchasing any of the many items rationed during the war, like shoes or tires, or other items in short supply because of materials diverted to the war effort and away from consumer products. It probably didn’t make a lot of difference in our family, since our consumer spending was not a significant part of the nation’s economy, though I do remember getting a pair of pigskin shoes once, since real leather was scarce. They didn’t wear well. I asked my younger sister, Jane, what she remembered about those hours on the church bench beside our Mother. She said she was fascinated by the back of Mother’s hands because the veins stood out, and she whiled away the time by pushing Mom’s veins around with her finger. Sometimes Mom would draw pictures of oak leaves and acorns, almost always the same, with the fluted edges of the leaves, and the distinct caps on the acorns. As for treats, she remembers there always being Sen Sen in Mom’s purse, in a little square red paper package, opened at the corner; and that Dad carried thick mints in his pocket, round as a dime, generally pink, sometimes white. Everything else in Mother’s purse was unremarkably ordinary, like her coin purse with a few pennies; but nothing more I can remember. EXCEPT the gallstones. Mother’s operation was epochal, not because she ever mentioned anything about it; but because it produced the most bizarre artifacts I had ever seen. They were in a glass vial about three inches long, sealed with a tiny cork. The tube was the same circumference as the duct in her gall bladder from which they had been removed, and they were arranged in sequence, fitted together like parts of a 3-dimentional puzzle, in the precise way they had been formed in that organ. Their shape and color were astonishingly unique. Being no expert on the subject, I had no comparative data; but these had to be the biggest and most singular specimens in the whole world. I have since heard accounts of the suffering created by minute stones in the corridors of the body. The pain these created for Mother was unimaginable for anyone not experiencing it, the highest level of which is called “exquisite.” Jane remembers our older sister, Pricilla, telling about how sick Mother was, throwing up outside the back door. But to me, as a little boy, my thoughts were about simpler things, as I carefully examined, and re-examined them through the glass, with my head nuzzled against Mother’s black-and-white print dress, waiting the long minutes until we could go home for bread, butter and bottled peaches as our Sunday night snack. All grown up, I smiled to think how unusual it was to hold in my hand these foreign objects which had formed in Mother’s body. Was their appeal macabre or something quite else? When Mom died, I found the stones where she had last placed them: in her purse. I kept them as a most singular memento. And then I “lost” them, and mourned over the absence of this irreplaceable, one-of-a-kind relic from my Mother. They were somewhat like the bones of the martyrs worshiped by the early Christians. Or like a piece of the True Cross of Christ in significance. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that there was nothing superstitious or morbid about it. My convictions about life’s purpose and processes through revealed religion gave no place to occult or fanciful notions about death and dying, or ghosts, or the underworld, or séances or such connections with the dead. Instead they drew my attention to Mother, with her unique personality, now in a place just farther down the endless path of Eternity from where we are, spending her time pursuing the spiritual welfare of her family members and friends, gently urging them to discover and exercise faith in the Lord, Jesus Christ, and come to Him through obedience to His word. We will eventually join her there, as we all move toward the objective of our Father’s plan: that we may experience a fullness of joy. And what about the gallstones? Well, I found them the other day in the back of a drawer, and feel like I’m almost sitting next to Mother again. To me they are a tangible token of the mortal stage we are now in, and a reminder, through my Mother, of the place to which we are bound. The plan is that we all be there together, and that we help each other along the way. How are we doing? Bennett Peterson –October 17, 2010. bennettpeterson@hotmail.com