The first time I saw Zelma Hunt would have been on 14 November 1964.  I don't actually remember meeting her that day, but that was the day that I first dated her daughter, Margie, my future wife.

"Who is Jim Kerns?" she had asked Margie.

"He's a boy at school," Margie replied.

"Why don't you date a Mormon boy?" Zelma asked.

"He's better than the Mormon boys," Margie answered.

Zelma came to live with us in her old age (June 1990), and stayed until her death 7 May 1999.  We were the only family she had left in the area.  Her other four children had scattered to Utah, Colorado and New Mexico.  It naturally then fell to her youngest, Marjorie, the one still in Baker Valley, to become her care-giver.

What if we could see the future?  Would it cause us to alter our actions?  That evening so many years ago as Zelma met the shy and nervous young man on her doorstep, could she have imagined that she'd spend her last years in his home?  Could the shy and nervous young man have imagined that the beautiful, vivacious woman would become an invalid that he'd be caring for?

I don't suppose that either Zelma or he would have changed anything in their relationship even if they could have had some way of foreseeing the future.  For his part, he ended up with the world's most perfect mother-in-law.  For her part, she ended up with a son-in-law who she said she couldn't have loved more if he'd been her actual son.

I owe a lot to Zelma.  She raised my wife, and she, as much as anyone, converted me to the Church.

Margie and I had kept company for most of two years.  Much of that time I had been away at Oregon State University where I completed one year and began a second.  I was unhappy with the school and my situation, however, so I dropped out and came home.

Margie was away at BYU.  Dave and Zelma were all alone and childless for the first time in their married life.  I was lonely, confused, and had three or four months to wait until I was to report for active duty in the U.S. Navy.

Three or four times a week I went to visit Dave and Zelma.  I felt drawn to their home.  There was peace and comfort there.  There was something there that I wanted, although I couldn't have told you what.

I heard later about a girl who came home from college with Zelma's daughter, Maretta, for a visit.  The girl stepped in the door of the Hunt home, hesitated a few moments, and began sobbing uncontrollably.  The Hunts were distressed, of course, and rather perplexed as the girl was unable through her sobs to answer their questions of what was wrong.  Finally, however, she managed to choke out, "It's—so—homey!"

I felt that, too.  It was a place I wanted to be.  No matter when I arrived, no matter whether my coming was announced or unannounced, Zelma always had some fresh, homemade bread just coming out of the oven.  She knew that I had a craving for homemade bread.  She did it for me.  There was nothing in the whole world like that hot bread with butter and her homemade raspberry jam.

After I'd eaten half a loaf of bread, Dave and Zelma would sit together on the love seat in the living room.  I'd sit on the sofa or the floor, and they'd talk.  I wasn't much of a conversationalist, but I was a good question-asker and a good listener.  They talked about the Church.  They talked about themselves, and they taught me the gospel.

I wanted a family like theirs.  I wanted a home like theirs.  I wanted a relationship like theirs.  I wanted the peace and direction that they possessed.  I realized that everything I felt in that home was because of their church.

Margie had given me a Book of Mormon.  I was reading it hungrily.  Margie was encouraging me in her letters, and Dave and Zelma were encouraging me in our conversations.  I attended church each Sunday with them.  I finished the Book of Mormon, knocked on the missionaries' door, and told them that I wanted to take the discussions.  So that they wouldn't be nervous about teaching me, I assured them, "And I won't give you any trouble.  I already know it's true."

I asked Dave to baptize me.  He readily assented.  Zelma was thrilled, of course, but asked me a searching question:  "If you and Margie broke up tomorrow, would you still feel the same about being baptized?"

I have been grateful for that question.  It didn't take any time for me to answer that it wouldn't make any difference, but I've thought about it many times.  It caused me to stop and consider my motives.  I knew at that point that I had a genuine, independent testimony of the gospel.

It took another three years before Margie and I were married.  I spent that time in California, Texas, and Japan serving in the Navy.  Zelma was a faithful letter writer.  Dave wrote, too.  I still have and treasure their letters.  What great friends and supporters!

Margie and I were married during a month's leave as I was being transferred from Japan to Morocco.  Dave and Zelma accompanied us to the Salt Lake Temple.  It was a wonderful, quiet ceremony with just three other people present.  Dave and Zelma were always there as our best supporters and cheering section.

Zelma came at the birth of each of our babies to help Margie for a week or two.  "That's the prettiest one you've had yet," she said about each one.  "That's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen.  I'll bet other parents feel like going home and drowning their kids after looking at yours."

It was hard to care for so many small children.  Zelma helped all she could.  We had a standing invitation to Sunday dinner at Grandma's house.  Those dinners were a big help to Margie, and a highlight in my children's memories.  We've carried on the tradition that she started and now have our own children and grandchildren to dinner after church every Sunday.

Family was the most important thing in Zelma's life.  Church was a close second.  Doing things for others, flowers, gardening, cooking, and keeping her home clean, comfortable, and attractive were also top priorities.

Zelma had a wonderful sense of humor.  She was always happy, quick on the repartee, and was not above teasing or joking.

I recall one of her jokes.

"I'm learning to speak Chinese," she told me with a straight face.  "I know the word for tuberculosis."

"Really?  What is it?" I asked gullibly.

In a rising singsong voice she said, "Wun-bum-lung."

Zelma once got me into a difficult situation.  She had a good friend named Zelpha Frost.  Zelma heard one day that Zelpha's husband, Jack, had passed away.  He had gone to the doctor, had a heart attack in the doctor's office, and died.

Zelma was always very good about helping people in need.  That included taking food to families where a death had occurred.  Zelma wanted to take a pie to Zelpha.  Dave had passed away a couple of years earlier, so I volunteered to take her to deliver the pie and make the courtesy call.

We went together to the door, and I rang the bell.  Through the window in the door we could see a man approaching.  The man looked an awful lot like Jack, himself.  "Does Jack have a brother?" I asked Zelma.

"I don't know," she replied nervously.

A moment later the door opened, and who should be standing before us but Jack, looking alive and well.  My mind raced as I fought a feeling of extreme vertigo.  "Hi, Jack, how are you?"  I said in as normal a voice as I could muster.

"Oh, I'm a lot better than I was," he said as he ushered us to chairs in the living room.

"Well, we heard you'd been sick," I said as I struggled to find a way to retrieve us from the difficult situation we found ourselves in.  I didn't want to come out and say, "We thought you were dead, so we were bringing Zelpha a pie."  Instead I said, "Zelma made you a pie to cheer you up and make you well."

I breathed easier then.  I'd successfully covered our shock at seeing Jack alive, and had found a way to explain the presence of the pie.

Jack went on to explain that he hadn't felt well, and went to see his doctor in Idaho.  While he was in the waiting room, he had a heart attack, and was falling over.  A nurse saw what was happening, caught him, and immediately started working on him.  His heart had stopped, but because of the immediate attention, the nurse was able to get his heart going again and brought him back.  Jack had, in reality, died.

We talked a bit more, and then Zelma laughed and said, "Well, we heard that you were dead, so we brought this pie for your funeral!"

I was horrified.  She had let the cat out of the bag.  And I'd covered things so well.  But Jack took it well.  Zelma's direct approach turned out to be the best after all.  We all had a good laugh about how news can get twisted up.  It isn't everyone who gets the opportunity to eat his own funeral pie.