Mother’s Day is coming up. May 13 is the day. So I’ve been thinking of my mother. She was born Alice Taylor in 1901 in Silver City, Utah, some miles west of Salt Lake City. It was a mining town and Mother was born in a tent.
Her mother, my Grandmother Taylor, was from Wales. She married a man whom I call Grandpa Martin. He had a half-dozen children when his first wife died. He went back to Wales and found my grandmother and married her. She had two children by him, David, who fought in WW I and Grace who ran off to the circus and was in a bear act and slid down a wire hanging by her teeth.
Martin was killed in a mine explosion in Scofield, Utah after the kids were born. This was not the Scofield Mine disaster of 1900. It was earlier.
Mother lived in Mercur, Lark and other mining towns and eventually Bingham where here father died and left her and her sister to take care of the family which consisted of my mother, her sister Rose and two younger sisters, Kate and Edith.
Dave joined the army so he could send $30 home each month to his mother.
My mother, Alice, and Rose worked in a boarding house long hours and then a laundry and then in a commercial bakery in Salt Lake City.
She met my father, a hick from Delta, Utah who had just homesteaded with his brother and then sold the farm. He was raised in Bountiful, Utah, Randolph, Utah and on a homestead at Ten Mile Pass in Eastern Idaho near Soda Springs.
The two would-be love birds lost track of each other and finally found each other, got married and had seven kids. Dad became an accountant and mother took care of us kids.
Mother was kind and sweet and she taught me how to sew, cook, quilt, wash clothes and whatever else she was doing. She took an art class too. I just copied what she did in some ways. I wash clothes, dishes, paint pictures and take care of my wife who has ALZ. So she gave me good training in domestic engineering.
Mother was a great cook and I can still see her stirring the gravy for Sunday dinner, dad pestering her by hugging her from behind. Well, his intention was not to pester her but to show her he loved her. They never argued and taught us kids to be good Mormon boys and girls.
Every year my parents celebrated the day they first met. It may have been Valentine Day that they met at the dance. They always did something special.
Both my parents died in Bountiful, Utah at age 88, one year apart, and they are buried there with many other Utah pioneers that settled the west.
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