My Favorite Time of Year

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. First of all it was the beginning of a new school year. It really didn’t matter what happened last year, this was a new teacher and a new start. A new school year meant new pencils, new crayons, and if I was lucky, new clothes.

Next was Halloween. My mother refused to let us use pillowcases for trick-or-treating because she said we would ruin them. Still we took large shopping bags and ran with our friends up and down Main Street. We each came home with a shopping bag more than two thirds full and dumped it on the living room floor to sort through it. If I was careful I could make my candy last almost to Thanksgiving. The all-day suckers were the last to go.

Every Thanksgiving my Grandma Warner made a huge turkey and brought it to our house. We made little turkeys out of gum drops and raisins, and placed them by each plate. Then aunts and uncles would come with their families, each bringing favorite dishes to share. There was so much good food; I could eat and eat until my stomach couldn’t hold any more. Later that evening we would finally have room for pie; pumpkin pie with whipped cream, apple pie, cherry pie, and mincemeat pie. If I wanted I could eat some of all of them.

As much as I looked forward to the gathering of all the family and the good food, I looked forward to getting my birthday present from my Grandma Warner more. Since I was born on Thanksgiving Day, it didn’t matter what day of the week my birthday was, to my grandmother, Thanksgiving was my birthday. She always gave me the same present, a birthday card with some money in it.

It didn’t take me long to realize that if this was Thanksgiving, Christmas, the most magical of all holidays, would soon be here. Catalogs with pages of clothes, toys, games, and candy arrived in the mail. My brother and sisters and I would sit for hours, looking at the endless treasures, wishing we could reach in our hands and grab them. Santa, that mysterious Grandpa, dressed in white, assured us if we were good, he would bring us our hearts desire.

I knew what being good meant. It meant listening to my mother and helping her as much as I could. It meant sharing with my brother and sisters and when we played a game, trying to make sure everyone got a chance to win, at least once. Being good meant treating others the way I wanted to be treated and helping everyone who needed help. I listened to all the stories of Christmas; the stories of little children being blessed by kind strangers and tragic stories of those who were ignored.

I wanted to be good. So every year I used my birthday money, to buy Christmas presents for my family. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Santa needed my help. Grandma’s birthday present was a start, and I added money I earned babysitting. I tried to get something for everyone, or sometimes I bought a game we could all play together. Christmas was a happy time for me. I was happy when I hid my presents in my drawer, or wrapped them in brightly colored paper, or placed them under the tree when no one was watching.

I often thought how blessed I was to have a birthday in November. How blessed I was to have a Grandmother who gave me money for my birthday. Because of her I learned that Christmas is an opportunity to celebrate the life of the Savior. It’s a season dedicated to making a difference in the lives of our family and friends and all mankind. I’m old enough to know that money isn’t necessary to be kind or helpful and there are many gifts that can be given that don’t cost anything, yet finding those who have very little and using a little money to bless their lives is a wonderful thing. Indeed it’s more blessed to give than to receive.

On Saturday, September 11, we had an open house to celebrate John's 60th birthday.  Family, ward members, co-workers and neighbors joined us in our backyard for a juice bar and appetisers.  All of our children were there as well as eight of our twelve grandchildren.  This picture was taken while the musicians played, "There Are Places I Remember" by the Beatles.  The weather was perfect, the music was wonderful, and the food was great!  One woman commented on our next to youngest grandson, Justin running endlessly back and forth across our deck.  Everyone seemed to have a good time.  As I visited with the wife of some one from John's work, our grandson, Christian, came up to us and held out his hand to the woman I chatted with and said, "My name is Christian."

"Who are your parents?" the woman asked.  We both waited and waited as Christian struggled to answer.

"Dan and Sherilyn." he finally said, then ran off as abruptly as he arrived.  I felt like I had witnessed a tiny miracle.  A miracle that I would get to see Christian, who struggles with Autism, walk up to a complete stranger and initiate a conversation.  I suppose some one could say he was only copying the behavior he saw modeled by those around him, yet isn't that how we all learn?  We copy those who came before us.

I've seen both sides, and the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship is one of the most difficult human relationships.  I remember the first time I met my future mother-in-law Lorna, she asked me a very deep, personal question.  I was surprised by her question and yet I realized she was trying to get an idea of what kind of woman her son was about to marry.  Even after we married I still felt awkward, like an outsider.  I didn't know where the dishes were kept or how the towels were folded.  I watched jealously as she and her daughter Carol, worked effortlessly as they prepared holiday meals.  Very few words needed to be spoken.  It was as if they could read each others minds.

Another dilemma I had was what to call this new woman in my life.  Of course to third parties she was and still is John's mother, but I struggled with my personal name for her.  To call her by her given name, Lorna seemed disrespectful, Mrs Van Komen was too impersonal, and yet to call her Mother, Mom, or Mama felt disrespectful to my own mother.  So when I called her on the phone, or rare occasions when we were face to face, I just started talking thereby avoiding the necessity to call her anything.  Because of the geographical distance between us, this worked for many years.

As years passed and I began to fall more deeply in love with my husband, I began to have more tender and grateful feelings for the woman who gave him life.  I started to appreciate the wonderful gift she had given me.  I knew as a young woman her life wasn't easy, and the actual delivery of John into the world was a nightmare, but she did it.  Because of her sacrifice I have a loving husband, five wonderful children and eleven beautiful grandchildren.  If she did nothing else she deserves the honor of being called Mother.

More time passed and since my children had grown and many of them left the nest I had less responsibility at home.  One day while thinking about Mother Van Komen's birthday, I had a brilliant idea.  I called her up and told her I would come spend a weekend with her for her birthday.  I had no agenda.  We would do whatever we felt like doing.  The fact is we didn't really do much.  We watched old movies and mostly we talked.  I remember talking about the great male vocalists, and when I said I didn't care much for Frank Sinatra, but liked Mel Torme and Mario Lanza much better, I found out we were kindred spirits.  I only hope that birthday weekend was as important to her as it was for me.

I love you Mother, you have given me more than you could possibly imagine.  Happy 80th birthday!