The pot holder

In 1992 when I was ten years old, we lived in a rental home in Chester, ID. At the time, I had been participating in 4-H four three years. My mother was my 4-H leader in cooking, knitting and sewing. She believed strongly in the program and started teaching my five siblings and I early in life. I was eight years old when I learned to knit and made my first pair of slippers. I was too young to enter them in the 4-H program, so they were entered into the open fair. I received a red ribbon. I was very proud of myself.

Now, at age ten, I was told that my Merry Miss group from church was going to learn to crochet. I was nervous. I was a knitter, not a crocheter! Crocheting seemed so foreign to me. I went to my mother and asked her if she knew how to crochet and if she could teach me a little before I had to learn with the group. Mom sat down with me and showed me how to make a chain using the crochet hook and yarn. She didn't know anything else about crochet, but I was grateful to learn what I could. It helped me feel less nervous as the activity day approached.

Normally, my Merry Miss group met at the church, but this activity was different. We were taking a field trip to a ward member's home. We piled into our leader's van and drove a few blocks to a red brick house. Clutching my crochet hook and feeling shy, I stepped out of the van. The lady's home was small but pretty. She had decorated it with many things that she had crocheted. She took us around her living room showing us wall hangings and doilies. Then she showed us a doll with a big beautiful crocheted dress and hat. It was by far my favorite of her creations. I thought I would like to make one of those doll dresses some day.

After our tour of the living room, we moved to the kitchen where we all sat around a large dinning room table. The lady handed each of us a paper with printed instructions and told us we were going to make pot holders for our moms for mother's day. I was excited. I had never made a pot holder before. “When you go home, you can ask your moms if they have any yarn scraps and pick out your favorite colors to make the pot holder,” she told us as she passed around small balls of yarn, “I'm just going to teach you how to make the stitches you need to know, you will have to make the pot holders at home.”

A few of the girls said their moms didn't have yarn. Our leader suggested that they ask their grandmothers and neighbors if they had any. I knew my mom had plenty of yarn in the house and I started to think about what colors I wanted to use. We needed two colors to make the pot holder. We also needed pop can rings. The lady showed us how to cut apart the pop can rings and wrap them with yarn. That part of the pot holder was simple. Next, the lady asked if any of us knew how to crochet. A few of the girls said yes. Most of us said no. The lady held up her own crochet hook and yarn and showed us how to make a chain. I was happy that I was familiar and comfortable with this first step. The lady walked around the table checking on everyone and making sure they understood what we were doing. As she passed me, she said “You crochet like a knitter.” It was a phrase I would hear many times over my life and would learn to be proud of.

The next stitch we learned was called double crochet. It was simple enough, but to me, it felt very awkward. I slowly worked my way down the crochet chain making double crochets. I was worried that I was the only person having a hard time, but was relieved when almost everyone asked for help. We practiced double crocheting for several minutes, then ate cookies and punch and went home.

I was happy with my new set of skills. I practiced over and over that night, showing anyone in my family that would watch. Mom found her yarn scraps for me and I chose baby blue and navy blue as the two colors for my pot holder. I went to work right away, wrapping pop can rings with the yarn. When I had finished that, I started on the border, which had to be crocheted. It took me two weeks, but I finished making the components of my pot holder. When I was done and it was time to put the pieces together, I realized with horror that I had no idea how to crochet between the yarn covered pop rings. I took my pattern to Mom begging for help. She studied the pattern to no avail but, as always, she knew how to make things right. She called my Merry Miss leader and invited her to the house. My Merry Miss leader was pleased to see how well I had done. My chest swelled with pride as she said, “You are the only girl who has finished her pot holder.” She took the pieces of my project and showed me how to crochet them together. She had been crocheting for many years and she was lightening fast. In no time at all, I was able to hand the pot holder to Mom and say “Happy Mother's Day!” Mom said she loved it and I was pleased to see that she used it to set a hot pan on as she made dinner that night.

I didn't always appreciate the efforts Mom made as she helped us complete our 4-H projects every year, but I know now that it taught me commitment and follow through as well as hard work. My life has been blessed immensely by the lessons I learned in the 4-H program. I am glad that Mom took the time to teach and guide me through my early years. It is my prayer that I can do the same for my children.

A lesson in humility

The summer I turned thirteen, I heard a surprising sound. There was a car driving up the dirt road that led to our cabin. This was something that happened very rarely. We didn't get many visitors to begin with and the road was so steep that if there was any moisture at all (and there was most of the time) the tires of a car would skid and prevent it from coming up the hill. I put down the sweater I was knitting for 4-H and ran to the tiny cabin window. It was a blue car that I had not seen before. In it were two angry looking people, a man and a woman. Dad walked up behind me and looked out the window over my head. He muttered something and left the cabin. I watched from the window as he approached the car. The man in the passenger seat started yelling. He was so loud that his voice came through the walls of the cabin. Mom stood up, looking worried. She quickly told Dale to get his gun and stand by the window, then she beckoned the rest of us to come outside with her. She hoped that having four extra people standing by Dad's side would intimidate the angry people to leave.

I stood shivering with fright next to my mom, Pamella and Michael. The man in the passenger seat was visibly drunk and now that we were outside we could hear why he was so upset. He had paid Dad to build a fence for him and he thought Dad wasn't building it fast enough. The man's wife, though she did not appear to be under the influence of alcohol, was red in the face and yelling as well, egging her husband on. I shrank a bit inside myself. Dad had had to pick up so many unpleasant jobs to keep us fed. My heart ached for him as the scene unfolded.

Dad was speaking calmly and quietly, explaining that he was still within the bounds of their agreement and that the fence would soon be finished. His words were not enough to satisfy the angry man, however, and with horror I watched as he reached up and hit Dad in the face. Dad's glasses fell to the ground. I must have moved forward because I suddenly felt Mom's hand on my arm holding me back. I felt a mixture of fright and fury. I knew that the man in the car was too drunk to defend himself against Dad. I watched and waited for Dad to hit him and knock him out, but instead, Dad bent slowly down and retrieved his glasses. He stood straight and tall and calmly repeated that the fence would soon be finished. The woman continued to yell obscenities, but put the car in reverse and drove off down the hill.

A few days later, Dad finished building the fence for the angry couple. We never saw them again. I was impressed by Dad's humility, for after it was over I could see that if he had hit the man back things would have ended much worse than they did. I will always be grateful for the sacrifices Dad made for our family and for the lessons he taught me. His example of love and humility in dealing with his fellow man will stay with me forever.

Sheep

My brother's and sisters and I participated in 4-H every year. We had decided to add sheep to our long list of 4-H projects. We picked out a little pack of bum lambs and raised them. There was a lot of effort involved with keeping them alive, and, in fact, we lost a few. The ones who lived received constant care. We bottle fed them throughout the day and twice at night. It was so hard to wake up, mix their milk, and prepare the bottles in the middle of the night. My mom told us we now knew what it was like to have a real baby and she laughed. I didn't think it was funny. I was tired.


When we left for Kamiah, the lambs were about three quarters grown. We put the sheep in a pen below the cabin flat. My lamb's name was Speckles. She was a white ewe with black spots all over her face. My sister's lamb was named Imp. She was white with a brown face. Our first winter in Kamiah brought Pam and I a happy surprise. Dad had told us that our ewes were too young to breed and that we would have to wait another year before they would have lambs of their own. As winter came closer to an end we began to notice both sheep's bellies growing wider and wider. It became obvious that they were pregnant. Pam and I were elated. We took extra care of our ewes, making sure they had the water and food they needed to maintain their pregnancies. We eagerly awaited the day when the new lambs would come.


A few months went by and before we knew it, it was time! Speckles went into labor first, she baaed and paced in circles in her pen. When it was time for her to deliver, Dad went down to help her. She was grunting and panting. She was in a lot of pain. It was hard for me to watch, but I knew that something wonderful was about to happen and that made it easier. It seemed like an eternity before the lamb was delivered. As I watched, out came a beautiful snowy white lamb, he was perfect! My heart swelled with joy, then I noticed the lamb was not moving. Dad held the lamb in his arms, clearing out his nose and mouth. There was still no movement. I stood stock still. I was afraid to move. It was as if the world had stopped. Dad picked the lamb up by his hind legs and swung him around in the air. He was trying to get him to take a breath. I just stood and stared. Dad tried several times, swinging the lamb, setting him down for a few seconds of rest and then swinging him again. I was in agony watching the process. I felt helpless and couldn't utter a word. After a few minutes, Dad gave up. He laid the lamb on the ground. "I'm sorry, Bug," he said "I don't know what went wrong." Speckles stepped forward and began to clean the baby with her tongue. My heart broke for me and for her and my eyes filled with tears.


Dad stood watching Speckles for a moment, then he gave her a few pets on the head and removed the lamb from the pen. It was getting dark. Dad sent me to the cabin while he and Dale dug a grave for the lamb. I was tearful. My mom told me to get some sleep so I could feel better in the morning. I laid in my bed with only the tarp separating me from the outdoors and from the mournful cries of poor Speckles who was searching for her baby. With every bleat she made, my heart broke more and I cried harder. Presently, Dad and Dale returned to the cabin. Hearing me sobbing in my bed, Dad said, "She'll be OK, Bug, animal's don't feel pain the same way we do. In a few days she will forget about it." I turned over on my pillow and continued to cry. It was the first time that Dad had said something that I didn't believe.


The next day, I visited the lambs grave. In an outpouring of emotion, I named him Miles, knowing that it meant soldier. I felt that he was a brave little guy, coming to earth and being taken so suddenly. I visited his grave every day for at least a month. I spent extra time with Speckles. My heart ached for her. I would stand in the pen with her and stroke her face and give her the horses grain to eat as a special treat. After a few days, she stopped searching for her baby. She seemed to go back to her normal self and it helped me to heal as well.


Just a few days after Speckles lost her little lamb, Imp went into labor. Pam and I watched as she paced the pen, panting and bleating. Dad went down to help her as the lamb was being born. I stood and watched. Before long, Imp had given birth to a beautiful white lamb. A baby boy, just like Miles. Imp's lamb was wiggling and trying to stand up. I watched with mixed emotions as Dad lifted the lamb and dipped his umbilical cord into a pan of iodine. Pam was beside me, excited and happy and proclaiming to the world how cute her new lamb was. I just stood. I was so happy that Imp had come through the birth OK. I was so happy that the little lamb seemed healthy and fine, but I was sad and my sadness was causing a sick, horrid feeling of jealousy to bubble up inside of me. It wasn't fair. I worked just as hard at taking care of my ewe as Pamella had. I spent just as many hours bottle feeding her in the middle of the night, taking hay and water to her and giving her affection. Why did everything always work for Pamella? Why did things always go wrong for me? Pamella got in the pen and began helping Dad. Imp licked the baby clean, but Dad didn't think she had done a good enough job to keep the lamb warm that night, so now Pamella had an old towel and was drying the baby herself. I stood and I watched and a tear rolled down my cheek. I walked back to the cabin. My mom saw my face and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was tired and went to bed. I cried myself to sleep.


The next morning I heard a familiar sound and it was not a good sound. Imp was bleating, a terrible cry. Pamella leaped from her bed and ran to the sheep pen. Curious, I got up, too and walked outside peering down the hill into the pen. Imp was running in circles all over the pen, bleating desperately. Her lamb was nowhere to be seen. Pamella began screaming that the baby was gone. Everyone got out of bed, threw on their clothes and began hunting for the lamb. At first we thought maybe he had just wiggled out under the fence and wondered off, but as the day wore on and he still could not be found, Dad began to suspect that an animal had carried him off and eaten him. Pamella was distraught. She stood at the top of the road with tears streaming down both cheeks. I watched as mom tried to comfort her, but Pam didn't want to be comforted. I knew how she felt. Dad, Mom and the boys gave up the search and put their efforts into calming Pamella and getting the basics of life, like making breakfast, out of the way. I thought about following them, going back to the cabin and getting on with life. I didn't want breakfast. My stomach was too sick. I slowly began to make my way back down the hill away from the cabin. Maybe if I looked just one more time... I didn't know where I was going. We had searched everywhere. I shut my brain off and let my feet take me where they would. It was as if I was walking in a fog of sadness. My feet led me in a straight line until I came to the fence line that separated our property from that of the neighbors. I turned and followed the fence line. Sadness was overtaking me and my eyes had stopped searching. I was looking only at the ground in front of me. Because of that, I walked very close to the big black dog before I noticed him. As I caught sight of movement, I was startled back to reality and it took me several seconds to comprehend what I was seeing. The dog had arched his back and his black hair was standing straight up. From his throat, he emitted a threatening growl. I froze. Laying on the ground beneath the dog's feet was the missing lamb. The dog continued to threaten me as I stood, terrified, wondering what to do. I knew this dog. He belonged to our little neighbor girl, Julie. He had been friendly with me in the past, but he was out for blood now. After a moments hesitation, I bent down and picked up the thing nearest to me. It was a stick. I threw it at the dog, not knowing what would happen. To my amazement and absolute relief, the dog bounded away towards the neighbor's house. I ran to the lamb. He wouldn't stand up. He held his head down and looked very sick and lethargic, but he was still holding his own head and that meant that there was hope! I grabbed him up and began to hurry up the hill. When I reached the road, I realized that my body was shaking and numb. I had been so scared by the dog. I wanted to sit down with the lamb in my lap and cry, but I wanted even more to bring him home. I knew Pamella was crying for him. I could hear Imp crying for him, too. I held the lamb tighter to my chest and almost ran to the cabin. Pam was still outside, still crying. I carried the baby to her and handed him off. Pam was taken by surprise, but she recovered quickly as she held the baby. "Where did you find him?!?" she asked as she hugged and petted him. Dad and the rest of the family were pouring out of the cabin to welcome the lamb home. My heart swelled with pride as I retold my story. I was so happy that the lamb was safe at home! Dad took the lamb from Pamella to look him over. The lamb had three tooth marks in the top of his head. Dad said the dog had picked him up by the head and carried him off. We were all surprised that the lamb was still alive, considering how long he had been missing and under what circumstances. The lamb was acting very sick. Dad gave him an injection of penicillin to ward off infection and we waited to see if he would survive. By the next day, he was thriving. It was as though nothing had ever happened to him.


I felt guilty for being jealous of Pam. Bad things can and do happen to everyone. I will forever be grateful for the outpouring of love and compassion I felt towards my sister that day. God has a way of teaching us the things we need to learn and, as harsh as it may sometimes be, the end results are priceless.

Words of wisdom from my little man

Today I was talking with Roger (age 5) about baptism and how he will receive the gift of the Holy Ghost after his baptism. I was afraid he might not understand what I meant, so I explained further that the gift of the Holy Ghost is not something you can see or hold, but something that you feel. I was surprised when his eyes grew wide and he said, "Mom, I don't have to wait for that, I can feel it in my heart right now! Don't you feel it in your heart, mom?" I said yes as my eyes filled with tears. Roger continued, "Mom, Jesus is going to send us more children." Roger repeated this statement three times and it filled my heart with joy. I am certain that God understands my desire to have more kids and that he has also heard my prayers and knows of my worries and concerns on the matter. I feel very blessed to have such a sweet spirited little boy in my life. I pray that Roger continues to listen to his feelings as he grows and that he will someday become a diligent and dedicated missionary. I love my children with all my heart. They are the most incredible blessing I have or will ever receive.

Kamiah ages 12 and 13

Shortly after my 12th birthday my family moved to Kamiah Idaho. My dad had found a beautiful piece of land there where he planned to build a house. It was early August and we knew we couldn't finish the house by winter time. Instead, we decided to camp out in tents while we built a small cabin to make it through our first winter. My sister and I slept in a tent with our parents, while my three brothers crammed themselves into a two man tent.

My dad spent months looking for a job. There didn't seem to be work anywhere. We lived on money from our savings account, but it was running out quickly. My ten year old brother had insulin dependent diabetes and without insurance his medical supplies cost $200 a month.

We managed to get enough money together to buy materials to build the cabin but it began snowing after we had managed only to build the floor. We moved our tents onto the floor to keep them off the wet ground. We quickly built the rest of the cabin, but were unable to insulate it. With what little money we had left, we bought a pack stove that was intended for use in a tent, not a cabin. It was our only source of heat. It was cold and there was no where to go to get away from the cold. When we went to church on Sunday, I relished the warmth of the building.

My brothers and sisters and I came up with creative ways to fight off the cold. At night I slept with two of our three cats in my sleeping bag. They wanted the warmth as much as I did. During the day, we played hard to keep our bodies warm.

When summer finally came, my dad found a job working on a pig farm, but was only making a few hundred dollars a week and we still didn't have insurance. What little money we had left in savings was going fast. We learned ways to get food without spending money. In the summer time we had a garden and we picked wild berries from bushes growing on our property. The people who had moved out of the house closest to us had left their chickens to roam. We set traps for them and caught a few. All of our eggs came from those three hens. During hunting season, my dad bought us all deer tags (except my brother who was too young). Because the law requires the person holding the tag to harvest the animal, we each took our turn being responsible to bring home food for our family. We had no electricity and no refrigeration. We relied on cold days to keep the meat fresh.

When winter came the second year, we had so little money that food was getting hard to come by. My mother did her best to keep us fed. Most days we ate ground wheat boiled in water, spaghetti noodles boiled with a few bouillon cubes or wheat pancakes topped with jelly or powdered sugar. My mother kept a jar of sourdough and sometimes for a treat we would make sourdough biscuits that were fried in a pan on top of the pack stove. We sometimes ran out of cooking oil. Those were our worst days.

The cabin was not big enough for all of us to sleep in, so my dad stretched a tarp around the cabin's porch to give us more room. We went to the storage shed were we kept all of our belongings and got our beds. Two of my brothers slept in a bunk bed in the enclosed part of the cabin. My sister and I slept side by side on the porch. My parents slept on a foam mattress on the floor and my third brother slept in the attic of the cabin which was so small he couldn't sit up without hitting his head.

At night we went to bed as soon as it was too dark to see. We didn't have enough oil to light our lamp every night. My dad would manage to scrounge enough money to buy batteries for our flashlight once a month. My sister would entertain us at night by reading a chapter from one of our mother's books. We always wanted her to read more, but we knew that once the batteries died there wouldn't be anymore for a whole month.

During the winter we took baths in an old metal tub. We heated water on the stove. The bather got to stay inside the cabin next to the stove. The rest of us had to wait on the porch in the cold. In the summer we bathed in the creek.

All of our days, even the bitter cold ones, were spent playing outside. We had very few neighbors, but were fortunate that the ones we did have had children our own age. We made up countless games to play among the trees on our property. Our holidays were very creative times. Decorations were made with old scraps of paper. We learned that we could make taffy with sugar and water boiled on the stove. We made little presents for each other at Christmas time and for birthdays. Sometimes we found enough money to buy a candy bar for the birthday boy or girl. Those days were filled with joy.

My mother was home schooling us at the time and even though we had very little resources she managed to seek out ways to keep us learning. During that two year period, I made my first quilt, knitted my first sweater, and learned how to put a zipper in a dress. I gave my first public demonstration in 4-H, learned to butcher a deer, to dip the baby lambs umbilical cords in iodine and to wash clothes by hand.

The saddest time I had during the two years we spent in Kamiah, was when my father moved away to find a job somewhere else. We didn't see him for five months. Finally he came back with a moving van and we all went to our new home together.

Even though we had very little, some of my fondest memories were made in Kamiah. They were made without money and without knowing what the future held. Those two years of poverty taught me to value my family above anything else. I will always look back on that time with a smile.

To my kids

Hi. My name is Heather Peterson. I am a twenty-eight-year-old mother of two with one more on the way. Although we are not wealthy, my kids have a pretty good life. They have a roof over their heads and comfortable beds to sleep in. Most days they get to choose what they want to eat for lunch. They have their own bicycles that are the right size for their little legs and they both have had more toys given to them by the time they were one than I had my entire childhood.

Sometimes I enjoy being able to give my kids the things they want, at other times I view my ability to accommodate their whims as a curse. There is a lot to be learned from having very little.

When I was a kid, my parents never owned a home. I spent my childhood living in rental houses, a cabin, tents... a barn. We wore hand-me-downs, drove an ancient truck, ate very bland and boring food and never seemed to have extra money. Through it all I was happy and I knew I was loved. I also developed a sense for what was important in life and what was not.

As we move forward in these uncertain times, I feel I have a lot to teach my children. I plan to record as many meaningful experiences from my childhood as is possible with my current work schedule. Anyone is welcome to read and comment, though it is my children that are on my mind as I write down these events.