1970s Furniture

Monica recently commented that she loved some of the furniture we had in our family room and how she has recently looked for it online. I confessed that I had recently referenced it and hoped we could amass some individual photos that might have them in the pictures, so as to get a look as a whole. I want to say that mom said they were Scandinavian. As I remember, there were 3-4 pieces to them made out of wood about 8 inches from the floor. They were deep set so that a 3 inch black cushion could fit in the crevice as pictured in the photo of Darron and Tony. The unique thing about them was that they were completely versatile so black mats, orange chairs or aqua blue chairs could go in any given space. So mixing and matching colors or one black cushion and one chair could be arranged next to each other. We could also take out the chair part and place on the floor and sit there to watch tv. May seem trivial, but these were pretty slick at the time, almost like our modern day Ikea furniture. Hoping others have photos of our furniture and can add.

In the picture entitled Darron 3 you can see the white table with matching white swivel orange space aged chairs. The table was one piece of hard white space aged material. This matched the family room set of benches.

My Memories of Mom's Last Christmas

I was 15 years old when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember when my parents called my 9 brothers and sisters and me into the living room and I remember coming in with a surly attitude, insulted that I had been called away from something I was doing, for this “stupid family meeting.” I recall her face when they told us. I don’t remember her crying. I remember how she and my dad just reassured us that although cancer was very serious, they were sure mom would be just fine. She had such faith. Now that I am the same age she was then, I know she must have been absolutely frightened on the inside. Her mind must have been reeling at the thought of all the possibilities: death, surgery, chemo-therapy, radiation, hair loss, her children and my dad.

How frightened she must have been, especially when she held her little three year old daughter. She must have looked into her “baby’s” big blue eyes and wondered what the future would bring.

I was there with her in the hospital when she saw herself for the first time after her surgery. She had undergone a mastectomy which not only took her right breast, but all the tissue and skin underneath her arm. Oh, how she cried. How ashamed she must have been of her deformed body. I don’t know how she ever faced my dad again, it’s a testimony of her faith in him as her husband and friend. She knew he loved her for who she was and he would always be there for her.

I went with her a few times when she had her chemo. She was so sick. It seemed that every day she lost more and more hair and became thinner and thinner. Her body was scarred and in constant pain. Yet, I don’t ever remember hearing her complain.

As I thought about my mom, I began to compare her life and circumstances with mine. At that time she had 10 children all under the age of 16. Her “to do list” was miles long. She had loads of laundry, piles of dirty dishes and no dishwasher, children to be taxied all over, and a never ending list of things that needed to be mended or repaired. Our family was very poor, but she always made do. She sewed many of the things we wore, not because she enjoyed it, but because she had to. There simply wasn’t enough money for all our needs. Again, I never heard her complain. I never heard her say one word that might ever lead me to think she thought her life was hard. She loved and supported my dad and never complained that there wasn’t a lot of extras.

As a matter of fact, I do remember her reply to my constant complaints about our “lot in life.” She would always say that we were “rich in love.” As one of the oldest and first in the family, I can tell you that I never ever heard her say that she regretted having any of the 10 of us. She considered her children as her greatest blessings.

My mom’s battle with cancer continued for 4 years. After graduating from high school I left home to attend Brigham Young University. The following summer, I returned home to get married and then my husband and I went back to BYU for school. As Christmas that year got closer and closer I kept feeling like I really needed to go “home” for the winter break. This was
virtually impossible since we were poor students and the flights home were very expensive. I also knew that I had been home just 4 months earlier and it seemed like a frivolous desire, but the feeling persisted and we decided to sacrifice the money for the trip. How thankful I am now for that prompting.

When I got home I found my mom up in her room in bed. I was so surprised to see the change in her. She was so skinny and frail and was having a difficult time breathing. She had lost so much weight that to walk was painful; much of the fat and muscle tissue was gone so there was nothing cushioning her feet and she could feel the floor with the bones in her heels. The worst part was that she couldn’t breathe because fluid had built up in her lungs. During the first few days of our visit her breathing became so labored that she had me take her to the doctor. There I held her as they stuck a huge needle, perhaps a quarter inch in diameter, through her back and into her lungs. I don’t recall the doctor being able to use an anesthetic during the process because of mom’s condition. The needle was attached to a hose which then began to drain the fluid from her lungs. There was so much fluid. I remember wondering how she had been able to take even a small breath with all of that fluid in her lungs. She had literally been drowning before my eyes. The process of extracting the fluid was very painful. As the fluid left her lungs and was not immediately replaced with air my mom felt as if her lungs were collapsing. She couldn’t breathe and the pain in her chest seemed unbearable. All I could do was hold her tight and tell her it would be all over very soon. Again she did not complain.

When I first arrived home for that visit I remember that mom was glad to see me, but more concerned about Christmas. It was only a few days away and she hadn’t been able to do much to prepare. She still had little ones who were expecting a visit from Santa and she needed my
help to get things ready. I sat with her as she made her list and then went in search of the toys, clothes, and other items she thought her children wanted. I wanted to just sit beside her and visit with her, but she was insistent that I get the remaining things on her list. She didn’t like being sick over Christmas, and she wanted it to be a good holiday for her kids. She didn’t want
it spoiled by her illness. Then just 3 days before Christmas her lungs again filled up with fluid and her breathing became so difficult that the doctors felt that she should be hospitalized. On Christmas Eve day I went to visit with her and-- again there was a list. One of the little ones had asked for roller skates and it was important to my mom that I get them. There were a few other things needed and as I left her hospital room I had no idea that it would be the last time that I would see her alive in this life. Looking back now, I should have known. She weighed only about 80 pounds and had tubes in her mouth and nose to help her breathe. Earlier that day she had undergone the same fluid extraction process as she had undergone earlier and I knew she was in a lot of pain. She spoke in a whisper, because she lacked the air for a true voice. She had to remove the oxygen mask in order to utter anything at all and it was difficult to hear her.

I was in K-mart shopping for the few things left on the list... it was Christmas Eve. I remember
seeing my dad come quickly into the store, asking me to come with him to the hospital because the doctors had called and told him to come right away. As we traveled to the hospital I prayed with all of my heart that she would be alive and alright. I selfishly pleaded with our Father in Heaven not to take my mom. I explained that we all needed her so much. I cried as my thoughts turned to the “little kids” who needed the love of their mother. My heart broke as I thought of the “big kids” too. Those teenagers still needed the loving guidance that I had received from my mom when I had been their age. I thought of my older brother on his mission and how much she had loved him and sacrificed for him. He needed her too. We all needed her and I just knew it wasn’t time for her to go, but it was.

When my dad and I arrived at the hospital we were told that she had passed away just a short time before. I went into her room and sat by her side and held her hand. I told her I loved her
and kissed her face and said good bye. I felt her spirit in that room.

As I sit in my home with my many comforts, surrounded by those that I love, with my healthy body and with my loved ones nearby, I know I would not want to walk in my mom’s shoes. I realize I could not walk in her shoes and ever do it with as much faith, hope and charity. She did not complain. She loved her children and to her dying breath her thoughts were of those she loved most.

Christmas is one of the most special times of the year for me. I often think of the many wonderful examples my mom set for me, especially during her last Christmas on earth. Looking back now I recognize that she gave me many precious gifts that did not come in pretty wrapped packages set under a tree. Instead, the gifts I am most thankful for are those she gave with her heart and her life. She gave me her love and acceptance. She taught me right from wrong and shared the true and everlasting gospel with me. She set a magnificent example for me of one who endures to the end, keeping a hope in Christ. It is my prayer that I will not waste these gifts. I feel tremendously blessed to have known her and felt of her love.

Corrections to Darron's "Firsts- Standing Room Only"

I have two corrections to this article:

1. Jackson 5 who????? ...It's the Santa 5 now!
Darron, you are not wearing pajamas- you are wearing a santa costume. Mom made these
for the following kids: Monica, Tony, Loni, Darron, and Kurt. We wore these in a ward Christmas program. You're right, the boy's tops did not have buttons or clasps. They wrapped around
you and then were held together by a big black belt. I remember spending evenings practicing
singing the song and dance. If I remember correctly, and I may not- but I'm sure Loni will correct me if I'm wrong, we sang "Up On the Housetops." Mom taught us a dance that involved doing these motions in the following order: Jump up with hands over head, jump to your belly, do a push up, and then return to our feet. This was repeated several times during the chorus. I can't remember anything after the push-up... probably because I was so out of breath by then... We were a huge hit at the show. It was all an attempt by mom to turn us into the Mormon version of the Jackson 5! (Dad wasn't the only one dreaming of hitting it big one day!)

2. The True Creator

I am the unequivocal creator of Goblins and Goodguys... the best game on Earth! Although I have no witness to my setting the game up for the first time as Darron and Loni claim, I, as the eldest, always did everything first and best... and lead the family in all cool things- so it stands to reason that I was the creator of this game. However, please let me set the record straight. Having fun with the debate over who created the game is not equivalent to being sensitive to its origination. For the sake of family peace, let me just say that I don't really care who invented
it, I just want it to live on. One of my bucketlist items is to play it again with my brothers and sisters and have my kids there as well. Anyone interested? We need a house with access
to the backyard from both sides!

Christmas: Circa New Jersey

Most of our Christmases were similar with few standing out in particular with 2 exceptions. The year we All received new bicycles, and our last as a family. The others followed a similar course.

The average Christmas season started with an abrupt and startling discovery by my mom. One night, sometime in the beginning of December, and only when it started getting late and when she wanted us to our rooms, she would stop mid stream from whatever she was doing and with wide eyes she would freeze and say..."Ssshhhhh. Do you hear that?" We would all freeze. Then she would quickly look in the direction of the closest window and say, "Did you see that?" We would all look in that direction with equally wide eyes. Mom would whisper, "elves." "I just saw elves peeking in the window." This was the beginning of every Christmas season I can remember.

Her penchant for drama was well known and these episodes were constant. As us children got older, we were able to participate, complete with taking bells outside the home to mimic sleigh bells for the little ones. Dad would get involved with making noises of hooves on the roof top, I think with 2 broom handles from inside one of the bedrooms. The older children loved helping with the drama for the little ones. Once the stories began, the questions began. Shouldn't we leave more cookies? Does Santa like home made powdered milk? Shouldn't we put out the fire? As this question and answer session began it all accomplished the same goal and always took place as we were ran up the stairs in succession. We all ran off to bed so as not to be on the naughty list for fear of receiving the dreaded lump of coal, which we truly believed we were all more than worthy of...at least us boys.


The Christmas Eve tradition was to open our one gift from Grandma and Grandpa Call and play with it that night. They never missed sending us a box of gifts. My most memorable gift was a remote control police car that came with a constant siren that was reminiscent of the old English bobbie cars. It was sturdy, built to last, and banged in to everyone and everything with the most obnoxious siren blaring non stop. Wheeeee-Whooooo---Wheeeee----Whooooo; relentless.

Setting up the tree was a family event. I recall going to chop them down, buying them from tree lots and strapping them on the top of station wagons, and ultimately getting the same one down from the attic in the form of a fake tree all depending on the year and our budget. One year we bought a live tree and were able to plant it in the front yard making it the second spruce in the front yard, this Christmas Spruce and a huge Blue Spruce. All had similar goals of family time. Some years we made popcorn tinsel by threading popcorn for hours and putting it around the tree. Other years we would make ornaments etc...The constant was that throughout the years of school ornaments and projects and through gradual acquisitions, we had the most eclectic tree on the planet. Our trees had ornaments ranging from homemade styrofoam candy canes that had stripes made from red tape, to fine glass colorful balls, to 10 different types of lights from the past 3 decades. No ornament was very well preserved, so they all bore their age and in hind sight looked like 10 different cultures and artists with 10 distinct visions for a road show  back drop competing to be the most recognized. At the time, it was OUR tree and each trinket represented distinct personalities without question. No one complained, just admired. I have no idea how we never had a fire.

One year we were gathered at the top of the stairs and were prohibited from coming down until we were all up and ready to come down at the same time. This was like torture as some were harder than others to get up. Our tree was always in the living room, which was situated at the bottom of the stairs and to the left. I say this because we knew our vision was blocked by inches. If we could make it down one or two simple steps we would just be able to make out the beginning of the sea of gifts that Santa had left for us. As the seconds counted down we would try to slide down on our bellies one step at a time, technically still remaining at the top of the stairs because part of our body was still at the top of the stairs. When this part of our body remaining at the top was simply a big toe straining to remain compliant, we could see the gifts and have the edge over the other children. This year was different. No matter how much we had grown over that year, thus increasing our scope of vision, we could not make out the beginning what was usually hundreds of presents. We had often been warned that times were tough, and of the likelihood of coal had reached its peak, nothing could have prepared us for no presents. As permission was granted, we made our way down to find a near empty Christmas tree and were brought in and told to close our eyes. We were then directed to the other room, the family room instead of the living room where we were to simultaneously open our eyes. There, in the house, was a row of bikes more full than any bike rack could seemingly hold. Pink ones and small ones, 10 speeds and 3 speeds, bikes with training wheels...and there it was, an all black Huffy with nobby tires, cool hand grips and pads on the handle bars and center bar all reading HUFFY. This was obviously mine and was the coolest of all the bikes. It was my height, my style, and immediately my greatest possession. This was the greatest Christmas I recall...but not the most memorable.

Mark Lawrence married my oldest sister Monica who lived in Provo and attended BYU. They came back for the Christmas season when it was announced that my mother was not doing very well. As I recall, she had gotten down to a weight somewhere in the 80s and you could barely hear her when she tried to speak. It came out more as a wheeze. Even her makeshift bell, which signified she needed someone to attend to her, was faint. This "bell" was a wooden spoon and the back of a pot she kept near for emergencies. She would bang on it and one or more would come to see what she needed. I recall her hitting it slightly and Mark responding. I believe she had asked for the hospital, or perhaps it was his own assessment, but I remember him carrying her to the car and taking her to the emergency room. I remember how frail she looked, how skinny her naked ankles were, and her beleaguered breaths. This was the last time I saw her alive. I don't recall how many days prior to Christmas it was when she entered the hospital, but I remember being gathered at dusk in the living room with all the kids by my dad. He had a look on his face I had never seen before on him; a distant look that I saw faintly on his face ever since. He expressed to us the best he could, that our mother had returned to her Father in Heaven that Christmas Eve.

I believe Melba and Vee Call were present and then for Christmas day, but gone were the rituals, the feelings, the anticipatory antics shared among the children that unfolded each Christmas morning. Gifts were there, the tree was there in all its hodge-podge glory, each child was present sitting in their pajamas and robes on any couch or chair they could find and in the form of a half circle around the tree. While the little ones stirred, the older ones looked glossy, distant, and transformed. I recall the older children, Darron, Loni, Tony, and Monica there, but not present. As a profound and overwhelming right of passage splashed over us simultaneously, with questions on the grand scheme of things, from Adam in England not yet knowing, to where will she be buried, to how did this happen to us...not this family...not this once vibrant woman, almost simultaneously each of us began what changed from helping with the little ones to what can only be described as rearing. We each came out of it slowly as if in a fog clearing and began our new roles in this family. We encouraged the little ones to hunt for their gifts and open them with all the vigor they could muster. We were the older ones and each of us bid our childhood farewell.