The story of the women in our family should, I think, be a consolation to other women of ordinary and routine lives.

Authors, as a rule, shy away from such stories. They prefer queens, or mistresses flitting from love to love, inspiring poems and breaking hearts.

It is far more difficult to tell the story of a mother than the story of a murderess.

Goodness inspires no conflicts, arouses no criminal passions, fires no cities, sends no men to slay or be slain. The struggle of a mother with an enemy called measles is undramatic; the conquest of dinner dishes or a dusty carpet seems completely to miss romance. Goodness is of the soul, and the activities of the soul are not easy to picture on the written page or photograph.

So good women are supposed to make difficult subjects for an author? What can be expected? All they do is save the world from utter ruin.

Rose, who was the oldest of our four daughters, was the only one with brown eyes. Marilyn, Betty and Vicki all have blue eyes, and I do mean really blue. I point this out because Gene and I both have brown eyes, all of my brothers and sisters have brown eyes and so do all of my husband's brothers and sisters. But here we are with three blue-eyed daughters, and three blue-eyed sons. Tim has green eyes, maybe that is because he fits in the middle of the family.
Then we have three sons with brown eyes. What about that?

Unless parents have both boys and girls in their family they cannot possibly know the joy of timid little girls who very early in life love dolls and dainty clothes. The world of boys is so vastly different; their boisterous play with trucks and baseballs. Adult male children joyfully throw a protective coat around their parents as they grow old. And there is the love and understanding of adult daughters on whom parents know they can lean very heavily sometimes.

Children are truly a miraculous gift from God. Always after the birth of one of our little ones, Gene and 1 would look and admire this little life that was truly flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, and together thank God for this small miracle.

My family knows that I do not fear death and that I never want to be cremated or laid to rest in a mausoleum. I want mother earth to accept me.

(End of Chapter 15)