Mom served in various positions in Relief Society while I was growing up.  I remember one Sunday in particular when I was about ten.  Mom had an afternoon meeting in La Grande.  We returned from church to the usual delicious Sunday dinner she had prepared before she left.  Things went pretty well at first.  We ate and read the Sunday funnies, then found ourselves staring at each other.

Dad got quieter and quieter.  Don and I couldn't think of a thing that sounded fun.  The day wore on, and the three of us sat in a stupor.  There almost seemed to be a physical darkness that settled on the house.  Don and I kept asking how long before Mom got home.  Dad would respond with, "You can bet she won't come home 'til the last dog is hung."  He was openly grouchy now.

I knew if Mom was there everything would be fine again.  I began wondering what she did in particular that made the difference.  I decided I was going to observe her return so that I could somehow fill the gap if ever I found myself in a similar situation.

I watched as Mom was dropped off and walked up the sidewalk.  She walked in the door, opened the drapes, turned on the overhead light and asked, "Why in the world are you sitting here in the dark?"  I was impressed.  I had discovered the secret.

Mom was always cheerful—unless she was feeling some righteous indignation, which wasn't very often.  She gave tongue lashings, got it out of her system, and was cheerful again.  Dad sulked.  There was an energy about Mom.  She was always busy.  Even at night if she sat down to watch TV she would be hemming a skirt or doing some hand work.

Mom made all our clothes, often copying dresses she'd seen at Heilners or in movies.  She made David little slacks out of Dad's old slacks during the Depression.  She made our formals and wedding dresses.  Mom would tackle anything.

If she got an idea to remodel a room, she would consult with Nellie Jackson, our neighbor, and they'd jump right on it.  Mom took out partitions, built book cases and put in shelves.  The upstairs was mainly her territory.  I remember going down to Dave Eardley's Lumber Co. with Mom and Nellie to get some wood for one of their projects.  They were discussing some technical problem and decided they could "toenail" it in.  With terminology like that I knew they had to succeed.

Mom and Nellie seemed to place all their hope in a fresh coat of paint.  Time and time again I'd hear Nellie reassure Mom, "A little coat of paint, Zelma, and no one will ever notice that."  Nellie was right.  The overall end result was nice.  Mom was usually successful in finishing her project before Dad knew anything was in the wind.

Nellie was the only neighbor Mom was close to.  They would run across the alley to visit two or three times a day.  Later as the other ladies in the neighborhood became widows, Mom became well acquainted with them.  Mom made a point to visit them once a day.  Leona Fleetwood told me once she spent the day waiting for Mom to come by.  It was the highlight of her day.

I remember returning home from a trip and accompanying Mom to visit Lula and Ace.  Lula was so excited to see Mom again.  She said she had been sick while Mom was gone, and she had kept telling Ace that if only "Hunt" was there she'd know what to do.

Ace liked Mom, too.  Once when Mom arrived, Ace met her out at his shop and said, "Zelma, I want you to have these huckleberries, but promise me you won't tell Lula.  It will make her mad if I give them away.  They are mine.  I picked them, and I want you to have them.  I'll go put them in your kitchen while you visit with Lula."

As Mom was leaving after her visit, Lula took Mom aside and said, "Zelma, while Ace is gone I want you to take these huckleberries, but promise me you won't tell Ace.  It will make him mad if I give them away."

Ace and Lula didn't get along well at all, and Mom, afraid to make trouble, made off with two buckets of huckleberries.