All My Children

Aleesha Elaine, 3 Years Old

“Babies are always more trouble than you thought, 
and more wonderful!” ~ Charles Osgood

This past week, on February 24th, my daughter, Aleesha had a birthday. She was born in 1976, which is amazing to me, as it seems like yesterday. Has it really been 34 years? Aleesha’s name was a favorite of mine, derived partly from an actresses' name on a soap opera I watched back then called, “All My Children.” Aleesha’s middle name, Elaine, belonged to Dale’s mom, altogether a beautiful combination of names.

I can’t believe it’s been over 34 years since I first held my new baby daughter in my arms. She arrived a few days early, having been expected on the 29th, doomed to be a leap year baby with a fluctuating birth date. Good planning on her part to come ahead of schedule.

Aleesha was the first of five little girls who would become their older brother’s best friend, sometimes tormentor, and ultimately care about and babysit his own children. I knew she would be a girl because of a dream I had before her brother, Cordale, was born. We had called him "Aleesha" for almost the whole nine months of pregnancy.  Somehow I could never picture myself being a good mother to a boy!  I didn't understand boys!  I'd grown up with only one brother.  However, right before Cord was born, in the days before Ultrasound, I dreamt I had two little children. One was a boy and the other a girl, and the little boy was just a little taller than the girl. It was then I realized my first baby would be a boy, preparing the way for his baby sister, still to come.

Aleesha was always mature for her age, as she rushed to grow up and keep up with her older brother. She was the earliest to walk of all our children (10 months), even with a broken leg at seven months that slowed her progress by a month. She served a mission in Brazil for the LDS Church at age 21, and with her fair inherited Scandinavian skin and light blond hair, she truly stood out among men! She is a loving mother to many, teaching third grade now for 10 years now. Her creatively and numerous talents make her a popular teacher and an asset to the teaching profession. She is a wonderful sister, aunt, and daughter to our family. I am proud to be the one she calls mother.

As a young girl I loved the books, followed by their movies titled, “Cheaper By the Dozen,” and “Bells on Their Toes,” all about a big noisy family with twelve children! I told everyone I wanted to have a dozen children, but I didn’t want to get married! I guess I was too young and naive to understand why this was a little disturbing to my parents, friends, and other family members. Fortunately, things turned out differently.

An anonymous quote I recently discovered says, “We shape our lives not by what we carry with us, but what we leave behind.” What I will leave behind after this life is the posterity I have been blessed with, and like the black, cursive carved letters on my bookshelf that say, “Blessed,” I am reminded daily of the gratitude I feel for the family I have been blessed with. I am blessed with unconditional love from my self-sacrificing husband, six talented service oriented children, their amazing spouses and my adoring grandchildren.

Having children was my greatest desire growing up and I expected it to be nothing less than ruffle bottomed panties, pink hair bows, shiny clean new penny faces, and organized wonderment. If I had been foretold about sleepless nights, worry over a sick child, and all the pressure, demands and chaos that go along with motherhood, perhaps I would have reconsidered. However, I would have missed out on an incredible experience and grown children who are now cherished friends. There is nothing like the smell of a newborn baby, fresh from heaven, with that soft little head lying on your shoulder. And there is nothing that equals sharing the joys and sorrows of each passing year of their lives.

If not for children, I would not have discovered who I am, or my potential in life. Instead I would have remained my "grubby old self," self absorbed, not knowing the joy of loving someone more than yourself. It has been more than wonderful!

My feelings about motherhood are reflected in this simple verse by Anne Campbell, written on behalf of her child.

You are the trip I did not take;


You are the pearls I cannot buy;


You are my blue Italian lake;


You are my piece of foreign sky.


(“To My Child,” Quoted in 'The Treasure Chest,' 1965, 54)

How Do I Love Thee?

Our Engagement (April 24, 1972)

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach . . .” These famous romantic words, penned by poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, are considered to be some of the most unconditional words of love, transcending all love throughout history.

Recently I had an opportunity to ponder this author’s life when I saw on old black and white 1930’s movie on television called, “The Barretts of Wimpole Street.” Elizabeth Barrett was born in England in 1806, the oldest of twelve children. She was well educated and read Shakespearean plays, among other great works, before the age of ten. By her twelfth year she had written her first “epic” poem, which consisted of four books of rhyming couplets. However, by the age of fourteen, Elizabeth developed a lung ailment that plagued her for the rest of her life. Doctors began treating her with morphine, which she would take until her death. In addition, at age fifteen, while saddling a pony, Elizabeth suffered a spinal injury. Despite her ailments, her education continued to flourish. She had a passionate enthusiasm for her Christian faith and taught herself Hebrew so that she could read the Old Testament.

In 1828, when Elizabeth was 22 years old, her beloved mother died, leaving her in the hands of her tyrannical father. Following this tragedy Elizabeth’s much-loved brother, Edward, also died, drowning in a sailing accident. Distraught and overcome with sadness, Elizabeth became an invalid and a recluse, spending the next five years in her bedroom at her father's home. She continued writing, however, and in 1844 produced a collection entitled simply “Poems.” This volume gained the attention of the famous poet, Robert Browning, whose work Elizabeth had praised in one of her poems, and he wrote her a letter.

Elizabeth and Robert exchanged 574 letters over the next twenty months! Unfortunately, their romance was bitterly opposed by Elizabeth’s father, who did not want any of his children to marry. So in 1846, the couple eloped and settled in Florence, Italy, where Elizabeth's health improved with Robert’s loving care and devotion. Elizabeth bore a son, her only child, three years later at the age of 43. Her father never spoke to her again.

Her poem “How Do I Love Thee?” was part of a collection of Sonnets written in secret before her marriage. The poem expressed her secret thoughts of her unconditional love for Robert, long before their mutual feelings were known. It was published in 1850, eleven years before Elizabeth Barrett Browning died in Florence on June 29, 1861.

Once my sister, Vicki, told me I was more fortunate than most, to have known, pure, unconditional love. I was taken by surprise by her comment, having never really thought about it before. I suppose it is easy to take for granted those rarest of gifts, having always possessed them. However, my husband, Dale, has always loved me unconditionally, even before we united and became as one.

Unconditional love—real love—is caring about the happiness of another person without any thought for what we might get for ourselves. It is a concept comparable to “true love” and said to be the greatest power known to man. Mystics, singers and poets have all expressed ballads of love—love that can fill us up, make us whole, and give us the happiness we all want.

Dale and I began seriously dating in the early 70s, still unsure about one another’s true feelings, while trying to discover our own little love story. The 1970’s quintessential romantic movie, “Love Story,” was popular in the movie theaters. I remember spending an afternoon watching it with my college roommates in a darkened, downtown Provo movie theater, sobbing uncontrollably, as it was representative of what every girl wanted. We didn’t want a sorrowful, tragic ending of course, but it gave us hope for romantic love, the kind that lasts forever.

I was afraid of marriage and in denial of my newfound feelings, continuing to write several missionaries and date other boys. Trying to postpone the inevitable a little longer, I was a talkative, humorous date, with no romantic intentions. During this time Dale was going to school and working in Salt Lake, while putting a lot of miles on his little green Mustang, coming to see me. The more I liked him, the more I tried to find excuses for not being available. At Christmas time I bought Dale a colored shirt and a tie, gently helping him depart from his tried and true returned missionary “white shirt” attire. I also made him a giant red stocking to hold the gifts, complete with three large lumps of black coal I’d picked out at a construction site. I intended for my gift to be more on the humorous side instead of sentimental, securing our relationship as “just friends.”

Dale on the other hand arrived on Christmas Eve with two little packages, small and suspiciously ring sized, or at least my family thought so. As I began to open the gifts, my family descended on us with the movie camera, quite an ordeal in the days of silent home movies with additional hand held lighting. Everyone, but Dale and I, breathlessly waited the “big moment,” when all would be revealed. We were blissfully unaware of their expectations, having no idea why they were all so interested in our gift exchange. Inside the first package I discovered a pair of beautiful, long dangly earrings. Inside the second package, carefully arranged and displayed, lay a perfect “real” hot pink, miniature rose with an intricate, miniature crystal vase. It might have been a let down to my anxious family, but to me it was the perfect gift, romantically from the heart. We became officially engaged the following April, resulting in a June wedding.

Dale has always had a green thumb. Not literally of course, but he has always loved working with plants, especially miniature ones. He helped his dad with the yard work growing up and especially enjoyed caring for the outdoor baby rose bushes. In high school he would often tie baby roses to the front doorknob of my house while I was at work. After his mission, Dale began growing his own miniature roses in a little greenhouse he set up in his bedroom. Dale pruned, watered, and pampered his little plants, waiting for the first rose blossom to bud. Finally after a few successful blooms, the perfect rose blossomed just in time to be his Christmas gift to me! The perfect rose for an imperfect girl, who didn’t know the best thing that ever happened to her, until he quietly slipped into her life and deep inside her heart. A very small rosebud, insignificant to most, but significant of the unconditional love that he has always given me.

 “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dale!” 
~ Love, Linda

“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! 
 And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” 
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“The Miniature Rose”—Given with Love, to Me!

“Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, 
But what you want is someone who will
 take the bus with you . . . 
When the limo breaks down!” ~ Oprah Winfrey

What’s In a Name?

In Memory of Devro 
(Feb. 8, 1956 - July 2, 2007)

In his Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare said, “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Names . . . we all have one, and most people have a vague idea what their own name means. However few give it much thought unless it has a special significance. Sometimes our birth names warp into shortened versions of the original, spanning nicknames meant to be terms of endearment. Growing up in my family was no different. My brother Dev and I loved inventing nicknames for our entire family (alliterations of course), and that was before I even knew what an alliteration was!

I loved playing with words and the names we created were just plain fun to make up. Our sister, Vicki, was “Vicki Vampire,” which made us laugh, as she was our older sister and sometimes a little bit bossy. Judy was “Judy Jellybean,” or “Judy Jumping Jack,” which suited her lively energy and her love of candy. I was “Linda Lamb.” I don’t remember choosing my name, but everyone called me that, I suppose referring to my “don’t rock the boat,” non confronting, usually gentle nature. I didn’t particularly like my nickname, feeling like I was considered fragile. I wanted to be a “tough” girl, like Judy.

I’m not sure how my brother, Devro, got his nickname of “Devy Duck,” but it suited him, as he was forever charming and loved to talk - a real funny “quacker!” When our baby sister, Loni, came along we’d apparently run out of clever nicknames, as her beautiful name somehow got shortened simply to “Lomp” or “Lumpy,” as our cousins referred to her. The nickname “Lomp” was pronounced upon her head by our brother-in-law, Richard, who also referred to his own daughter, Monette, as “Mo.” Yes, Lomp and Mo were the best of friends. To this day, even though Loni is well over 40, Richard still calls her Lomp!

Devro and I also enjoyed making up nicknames for our parents. We settled on “Shirley Squirrel” for mom, due to a lack of a more creative animal beginning with the letter S. Later, after I was married, I discovered my mother’s nickname growing had been "Shirley Salad," as she loved to eat salad. But we didn’t know anything about that as children. Humorously I grew up calling my mother’s sister, "Aunt Fruity." It never occured to me that it was an odd name or that it wasn’t her real name! I just accepted it. In reality, her name was Ruth, nicknamed “Fruity” because she loved eating bottled fruit for her after school snacks.

I don’t think we ever came up with a good nickname for dad, as nothing in our young vocabulary of “M” words seemed appropriate for Milt. Ironically last year my sister, Loni, told me our dad had created his own nickname, calling himself “Clay!” I had never heard that story before and curiously asked how it had come about. Apparently after dad began working for Won Door Corporation, installing folding doors, he would sell the left over metal parts from his installations to the recyclers.  They wanted a name for their records, and not wanting to give them his real name, he used his favorite name, Clay! It was the name he’d regularly suggested to us as a possible name for one of his grandsons. When it was rejected, he took it for himself!

My sisters and I were all given middle names that were reflective of our patriarchal grandfather’s southern heritage. Southerners seem to like to combine two names as one, and we had names that followed suit . . . Vicki Ann, Judy Lyn, Linda Rae, and Loni Mae. We were all very Billy Bob, Samantha Jo, in a Billy Ray sort of interesting southern style way. The exception to the rule was in the naming of my brother, Devro, my parents pride and joy and only namesake.  My mother wanted to give him the unusual name of Devereux, derived from the beautiful French name usually reserved as a last name. However, Mom was worried about the complicated spelling and imposing such a big name on her young child.  The only spelling she knew of was “Devereux” and that seemed a lot to put on one baby boy.  Then a friend sent a gift for our baby brother. Having heard his intended name, but unsure of the correct spelling, she spelled it simply, “Devro.”  The rest was history. Mom, lover of all that is clean and modern, loved the new spelling! To this day we have never heard of, or seen another, with that American spelling of a French name!

I have always loved alliterations, naming my pets appropriately with names like, “Barnaby Bunny” and “Parakeet Pete.” However I also adore names with an added sense of humor, like “Jack Rabbit” and “Gregory Peck.” Following in their mother’s footsteps, our children named their pets and stuffed animals too, also giving nicknames to each other, their own little terms of endearment towards one another. Of course our sixth and final child got the brunt of the nickname game, as each of her older siblings bestowed their favorite upon her. “Mckenzie” became “KiKi” (pronounced Kee Kee), which was the name she called herself when learning to talk. Then there was “Mouse” or “Mickey,” after the famous Disney character coincidentally sharing her birthday, and also “Jo,” “Joey,” or “Josephine,” with no rhyme or reason other than they “could” do it, finally wearing her down into acceptance. The name torture continued with an imaginary friend named, “Fred,” that her sisters invented and convinced her really existed. It was mom torture as well when I’d hear her in her room airing her childhood complaints and the unfairness about her world to her only understanding friend, dear Fred. Sisters! Gotta’ love ‘em!

I have had many unfortunate nicknames of my own over the years. My mother’s youngest brother, Uncle Kay, called me “Linda Lou,” and occasionally “Linda Spinda.” I remember a big family Thanksgiving celebration in our basement one year, where his nicknames became an annoyance to my budding young teenager style. The relatives on that side of the family all lived fairly close in proximity, and they were coming to our house to eat. It was a special holiday celebration, so my sister, Judy, decided to give me a glamorous hairdo for the occasion. She enjoyed trying new hairstyles out on my long hair. I spent the morning in her little downstairs bathroom as she curled, ratted and sprayed my hair, creating a half up-do with long curls hanging beneath it. When perfection was finally achieved, I gracefully walked up the basement stairs to show off my magnificent new look. At that precise moment, Uncle Kay came bounding down the steps carrying food for our feast.

“Hello, Linda Lou,” he said, lovingly patting my new hairdo flat on my head, unaware of my horror and the painstaking hours I’d spent getting my glamourous hairdo. “How’s my Linda Spinda?”

Although, nicknames can often be a form of ridicule, mine were always considered desirable, symbolising a form of acceptance. In junior high I nicknamed myself “Lindy,” after a brand of pen I used, thinking it would be great to have a pen with my name on it. However no one else knew about it so the name never caught on. In high school the boys in the ward nicknamed me “Nelda,” for reasons I can’t recall. Unfortunately they took great delight in teasing me with it long after I was married. In college I acquired the nickname of “Cinda,” after a boyfriend read a story I’d been given in one of my classes titled, “Cinda I love You!” Somehow it stuck and everybody began calling me by the new name. Boyfriend even had license plates made for his car with the name Cinda on them. My claim to fame!

Nicknames are still very much a part of my life, having somehow transcended into my present day environment. Thanks to my son-in-law, Casey, some of my favorite things now have family nicknames that have become permanent sayings. Our tranquil living room with white couches, off-white carpet and glass end tables, meant to greet guests and provide peaceful harmony . . . has been renamed the “Air Lock,” referring to the sanitary feel of a room so white and clean that it takes your breath away . . . apparently not in a good way. After our daughter, Ashley, married, her empty bedroom became the “Secret Garden,” a place where Casey could hide away during family parties, reading a book to his hearts content. A treasured piece of modern white sculpture, a design meant to be elegant, simple and symbolic of life’s circle of love from the “Circle of Love” collection by Kim Lawrence, has become the “Whip Cream Statue.” And Finally, the purple bedroom, formerly occupied by our youngest child before she decided to abandon us and move downstairs to the Secret Garden, has become the “Guessing Room,” like “guess who lives there now?” Thank you Casey’s daughter, my grandchild, Acacia. Like father, like daughter!

Today is my brother’s birthday. He would have been 54 years old. Happy Birthday Devy Duck! I miss you now that you’ve joined Judy in our heavenly home. Has it really been over two and a half years since you left? You were always the life of the party and it’s not quite the same here without you. I can still see your mischievous smile in my minds eye, your hand waving “hello,” your famous wide mouth grin, the “Barney the Purple Dinosaur” voice you’d mimic perfectly, and the barking dog voice that scared us half to death when you’d jump out from behind closed doors. You have always been just as unique as your name! “ . . . By any other name would smell as sweet.”

"My Brother and I"

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” ~ Helen Keller