Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Faith is an interesting concept. Like love, it grows. It means different things to us at different times, and (hopefully) it matures as we mature and leads us to a higher plane of living. It’s kinda like that old song, “And he thought that he knew what love was…” I really thought that I knew what faith was.
When I was called into the Relief Society Presidency for the first time in 1994, Grandma Lyn sent me the book, “Love Is A Verb” by Mary Ellen Edmunds. It was such a nice introduction to the idea that love becomes charity when we DO something. Likewise, belief becomes faith when we take those first steps into the unknown. I have taken a lot of steps into the unknown the past few years and I have been overjoyed at the things I have found on the other side.
One of the things that has helped my faith grow immensely is internalizing the parameters of our agency and God’s role in His plan. As a parent, I am amazed at the restraint Heavenly Father exercises as he allows us to grow and experience this life. I try (and often fail) to keep myself from interfering with the agency of my kids. If I think I can save them some pain or frustration, I want to step in and “fix it.” I try to give them room to learn by natural consequences, but it’s really hard. So really I admire God’s respect for our agency. The only lines he has drawn are around life itself. He has given us specific instructions about how life should begin and how it should end, and there are dire consequences for those who step over those lines. Life and death are His domain---what I do from my first to my last breath is mine.
And so there I was, worrying about my brother Matthew being deployed in Iraq in early 2006. I remember being really particularly upset one day, and having the spirit calmly speak to me: “He will not die until he has accomplished his mission on earth.” Now, I kinda knew that already, but it started to sink in at that moment. We are all here to become like God (remember the Sermon on the Mount? “Be ye therefore perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect”?). We arrive with cracks to fill in our characters, and through the application of the atonement of Christ to our life’s experiences, those cracks are filled and we become worthy of our Father’s presence. And only He knows when that mission has been accomplished and we are ready to move on from this life.
The lesson began to sink in even more as I watched two different TV shows—one was a show about freak accidents on the Discovery Channel, and one was a show about miraculous survival on Oprah. For some reason, watching those shows within a day or two of each other helped me to realize that these were not really “Freaky” or especially “miraculous”—each of these people had a mission in life. For those who died in “freak” accidents: mission accomplished; for those who survived, there was obviously still work to be done.
Suddenly it all made so much sense. I felt totally at peace, not only with Matt’s mortality, but my own and my children’s. While I still take caution and I’m always concerned about their well-being, I have a peace inside me knowing that the best thing I can do for them is to pray for them, and pray for me—that I can help them fulfill their missions and meet their potential so they are ready to meet their Maker whenever that time comes.
And the same goes for me. I am sure, like me, most people suddenly take much better care of themselves, take much more precaution when they become parents. We have a new reason for living—we want to be here for our kids. But I have so much less worry now that I know for sure that as long as we are striving to progress, our lives are preserved until our missions are complete. It’s like the hymn—“And should we die before our journey’s through, happy day—all is well/ We then are free from toil and sorrow too—with the just we shall dwell.”
To me, one of the most beautiful expressions of faith in the scriptures, and the most meaningful to me right now, is 1 Nephi 11:17. Nephi is being shown The Grand Vision, specifically the birth of the Savior, and the angel serving as his tour guide asks him if he knows about the condescension of God. “Condescension” is a big word, and I bet Nephi (Mr. Plain & Precious) was thinking, what? But here is what he said: “I know that he loveth his children, nevertheless I do not know the meaning of all things.”
Isn’t that AWESOME? A prophet of God basically said I don’t know everything, but I know he loves us…and that was enough. And you know what? I think it’s enough for me. I have been a “why?”-asker and truth-seeker and pattern-finder all my life—I want answers!—but Nephi has taught me to chill. I am able to act in faith much more often now because (a) I understand God’s parameters and (b) I know—I feel it in my heart for real—that he loves us and will only guide us in the paths that lead us back to him. We just have to trust, to follow, and quit taking short cuts or our own little roads because his ways don’t seem to make sense from where we’re standing. I’m not sure what’s around the next corner for me, but I have learned from experience that I will be okay and it will be for my good because my Heavenly Father loves me. And he loves you, too.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Good-bye, control freak, hello new mom.
The first out-of-control thing my daughter introduced to me was parental love. I was totally unprepared for the depth of emotion and sense of connection and responsibility I had for her. I was shocked at the heart wrenching sadness I felt when they took her out of the hospital room for a few minutes to do her neo-natal tests. I sobbed when I heard her cries as they stuck her heel. And then I sobbed some more because I knew that old quote about my heart living outside of my body was coming true. What had I done? I had opened myself up for a whole new world of joy and sorrow. As much as I thought I knew what was coming, the love was something beyond any possible description—something I never could have known without experiencing it for myself.
The following weeks and months brought on a slew of things that were beyond my control. After a few weeks, I could no longer remember what it was like to sleep for 8 hours at a time (and I had a relatively mellow baby—it’s just that she ate slow and I obsessed about every little breath she took)—I was thrilled to get 4 hours. What luxury! What utter decadence to sleep for 4 hours! With the sleep deprivation came the slippery slope of “letting myself go.” A shower longer than 2 minutes AND blow-drying my hair became a great indulgence. A really, super-good day included some make up and pants without drawstrings. Oh, and shoes, because on a super-good day, we might leave the house.
While I could often find joy and revel in my new role, I also often felt totally overwhelmed and alone. And then feeling overwhelmed made me feel like a loser. I’d say to myself, “She’s ONE LITTLE BABY! You can’t handle ONE baby? Most of the world does this three or four or five times over and you’re freaking out with ONE?” And of course I thought I was the only horrible woman who wasn’t a natural mother; the only wretch who ever had a hard time nursing, who sometimes cried when her baby cried, and found it difficult to do her wife stuff and housekeeping stuff while trying to figure out the mother stuff.
Eventually I got used to my new life. For two years, I struggled with my new slower pace. My daughter grew into a sweet toddler and I felt like I might be ready for another baby. My second daughter came, and it wasn’t such a terrible adjustment. She slept more and ate faster and life was good. But I had lots more going on the second time around. We were building a house and I was serving in the Young Women’s Presidency and I was carving my niche in a new town and culture. I felt overwhelmed all over again, in a different way.
But even in my stress, I knew that I was trying to do good things. I felt that I was, for the most part, “about my Father’s business”, and that he would help me. A phrase I remembered from Wilford Woodruff’s journals rang through my mind almost everyday. When he was called to be President of the church, Elder Woodruff wrote, “I pray God my Heavenly Father to make me equal to my day” (Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Wilford Woodruff, p. xxx). I started saying that to myself like a mantra. It was my daily prayer, and I began to see that my prayer was answered. I noticed that as long as I gave my honest best efforts, I had enough energy and health to complete the tasks I faced. Like the principle of tithing, when we put the Lord first, there is always enough. I may have been running on three hours of sleep, but I believe God made me able to finish the worthy things on my daily checklist. Somehow, when I put him first, I had just enough time and just enough energy to do His work.
In the few years of my motherhood I have gained a testimony that raising my children is my part in building the kingdom today. I made a commitment at baptism to take upon me the Lord’s name and his work, and I promised over the altar as I was sealed to my husband that we would be fruitful. Although many days and many tasks seem menial, and there is too much on my plate, I remind myself that I am keeping my covenants and God will help me. Even with the testimony I’ve gained I still find myself saying. “Oh, I would die if Heavenly Father asked me to ___,” or, “They better not EVER ask me to do ___. “
That attitude began to change in the fifth year of our marriage when we decided to have a third child. Like the other two times, we decided to have a baby and I was pregnant within six weeks. I remember thinking as I took the pregnancy test, “This is so exciting and so hopeful…I feel so bad for my friends who go through this month after month, hoping, watching for the two lines and only seeing one…or seeing the two lines and then miscarrying a few weeks later…I am so glad that hasn’t happened to me…[and then the old familiar] I don’t think I could ever live through that!” I never felt ungrateful for this amazing fertility, but I guess I was just sort of used to having a baby when I wanted a baby. I really liked having a spring baby, so I was going to do it again and lah-dee-dah. I felt super-blessed this time because I wasn’t even sick—just tired. Maybe it was a boy!
Of course you know what happened. I went in for my 10-week appointment and everything looked great. Everyone was so happy about my pregnancy, great to see the doctor again, let’s do an ultra sound at 12 weeks to confirm the dates. At the ultra sound, the tech said I must have my dates wrong because the embryo only measured 7 weeks. I felt like my heart stopped and I tried to catch my breath. You see, I never get my dates wrong…my body runs like clockwork, and so do our “romantic dates.” So I held it together in the office, but fell to pieces on the way out because something was very wrong. I just didn’t think that the little fishy we saw on the screen was still alive. A week later, my feelings were confirmed and I went through that process so many women go through—an experience that just weeks before I had sworn I would never survive.
But I was made equal to my day. Not only did I survive, but my heart and soul were opened up and strengthened in ways I hadn’t experienced in years. That humbling experience opened me up to so much more teaching from the Holy Spirit that followed that sad week. I remember Rich’s cousin telling me that she, too, had a miscarriage between her second and third children. She said, “It was really hard because were ‘planners’, too, but six weeks later I conceived my last son and he has been the sunshine of my life. He has totally blessed our family.” And guess what? Six weeks after my miscarriage, I conceived a son who lights up my life everyday.
So I am trying to never say never. I am trying to replace the negative “I can’t…” with the faithful response, “with Heavenly Father, I can.” He knows my limitations and where I need to grow and I know that if I let him, he will always make me equal to my day.
Monday, August 06, 2007
I know, it's been a VERY long time since I updated this personal history blog of mine. I've been dangling by a thread of sanity, white knuckling my way back to where I can make my own priorities. But guess what? I'm back to that place and making my personal and family history a priority again.
There has been a story brewing in my mind for about 10 months and I am just starting to get it out. I want to share my recent growing experiences and especially my testimony with my loved ones and posterity.
Starting with my miscarriage in November 2005, I felt Heavenly Father "cranking it up a notch," so to speak, in my life. For a solid year I could feel the challenges and lessons flowing to me. If my mission had been my spiritual undergraduate work, then my doctorate studies began in November 2005. I spent a year soaking it up and The Test began the week before Christmas 2006 (and the pop quizzes continue). I think I passed, but I need to get this thesis written so I can continue growing and remember what I have learned (there is nothing worse than having to repeat a course, is there?!).
So far I have five chapters sketched out in my journal/notes: “Equal to My Day,” “Faith and God’s Domain,” “Satan Hates Happy Families,” “The Heart of the Matter: Forgiveness,” and Discipleship. I will post the first tonight, and I may add some more chapters from thoughts/lessons that I am currently processing that center around not taking offense (Elder Bednar’s Oct. 2006 talk), not giving offense (Elder Holland’s April 2007 talk), and the Holiness of Hausfrau-hood (Julie Beck’s Dec. 2005 article). So welcome to my inner life!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The kids weren’t terrible. They were quiet, but consistently a little naughty, constantly distracting me from the speakers. I tried to listen and I did feel the spirit and I waited for something to teach me. Over the din, I listened intently to the final talk from our dear Stake President. His day job is Institute Director, so he is a great teacher, every time he speaks. I had gathered enough from the meeting to know that the theme was the price of discipleship, and that we needed to make a few more sacrifices to get to the temple more often. I counted that as lesson number one—there is always room for improvement in our temple attendance, mostly for the same reason there is room for improvement in our stake conference attendance (getting a babysitter for three kids for at least 7-8 hours is no small feat…but I digress). So President Heap centered his remarks on this scripture:
Luke 14:26-27: If any man come to me, and hate not his father and mother, and wife, and children. And brethren and sisters, yea and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.
(The footnote refers us to Matthew 10:37, which reads, “He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy
of me.” It also shows a JST that explains the hating your own life thing as “is afraid to lay down his life for my sake.”)
This scripture and the ensuing sermon spoke to my heart in a very current way, and also as a reminder of a sacred experience I had as a missionary.
The current way is this: it’s no secret that I am very close to my siblings. And it’s probably no secret (through reading my blog, anyway) that about half of them have gone temporarily insane recently (and by insane, I mean making choices and justifications that are totally off my personal radar screen and, for some of them, totally out of character). After visiting with each of them over the holidays and New Year, I had quiet spiritual assurances that they would all be okay (and that I and my own family would be okay), and that was nice. But within a few weeks, a horrible chasm had grown between us. Trust had been broken; lots of common ground was lost. I was a thousand miles away from my dearest friends in every way imaginable: physically, and now emotionally and spiritually, too. And it hurt. It hurt really bad.
One morning in early February, I woke up and could no longer hold it all in. I felt terribly sad knowing we couldn’t all be in the temple together anymore. It felt like some of the joy of being temple worthy and all of the blessings and camaraderie of gospel living had been stripped away from the relationships that meant the most to me (besides those of my nuclear family, of course). I cried. I cried like one grieving the death of a loved one. And I guess it really was a death—a spiritual death, however temporary—and it deserved my grief for a moment. At the same time I was overcome with gratitude for the pure goodness of my husband and the trust I have in him. Each time I thought of my family of origin, though, I felt a profound loneliness. It shouldn’t be so hard to be good, I thought to myself. It shouldn’t be so hard for me, and I wish it weren’t so hard for them. I felt like I was shouting over the chasm and only my echo came back.
Which then reminded me of the mission thing. At one point in my mission, near the middle, I transferred in to what became a small scale “mission scandal.” You know, one of those situations where people get chastised and transferred? My mission president asked me about the situation in an interview and I told him everything I knew. I wasn’t directly involved and our work was going fine, so I wasn’t too worried. President told me he was very concerned about certain missionaries and I should have noticed this or that, and he wondered if he could trust any of us anymore. This shocked and hurt me and I carried the hurt with me into my work the next week. Although I knew I had been 100% honest, and I knew God knew it, I was still terribly shaken by the thought that my President didn’t trust me. I prayed about it one night and fell asleep praying. I had a dream that was long and strange but had a message for me, directly from Christ: “You need to put your trust in me and me alone. You have to stop worrying about what other people think, even your mission president.” Profound and applicable, and easier said than done. It’s something that has become easier, but is still a struggle to this day. And I believe He knew it would be.
I really miss my siblings. There is an enormous part of my life that I can’t share with them. You know, when you’re in it together, you get it, and when you’re not, you just avoid the topic? There are lots of things like that in life—motherhood, marriage, addiction, etc.—either you’ve been there or you haven’t. Pure Religion and Discipleship are in that category for me, and it’s sad. I have felt left out for a long time, but it’s a good kind of left out. The Savior said in Luke 14:26-27 that it might be like this and I have to love him more than anything to be his disciple (and I think I do—I’m trying to prove it). But he also said (coincidentally) in John 14:26-27 he would send me comfort and peace… “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And I’m not troubled or afraid anymore. He kept his promise in a million little ways throughout the month of February. My cup, which felt so empty on that morning I cried has been filled to overflowing with assurances that I am never alone; that God gave me Rich for this exact reason (and a million others); that my siblings will indeed come back someday, and we will all walk this path together with our families. Until then, I’ll stay the course and pay the price of discipleship. There is no title I’d rather have.
(Thanks, President Heap)
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Muriel attended school in Central through the 8th grade and was their valedictorian. Her 7th grade teacher thought she was a smart alec and went to the Webster home about it (I'd like to know how THAT turned out). In 9th and 10th grade, she went to Thatcher schools, then on the Gila Jr. College for her junior year. Her last year was spent in Ft. Thomas schools because Gila would only take Thatcher residents. Muriel loved school and was a good student. She developed into an interesting mixture of curiosity, intelligence and capabilities. She loved to learn and to read. The Webster family had a granary and she would go up the stairs to the top and read. It was the perfect place because she couldn’t hear when they called her. Sadly, Muriel didn’t get to attend her graduation exercises; she got appendicitis. Her father couldn’t afford the surgery, so she had to stay in bed. Later, they had to do the surgery anyway.
The Websters lived on a big farm. Along with the granary they had a barn, with a big pigpen inside. There were also two corrals and a shop with farm equipment and tools. They had a horse named “Whitey” which the kids would ride and a workhorse called “George”. It was about a mile walk to school, so she sometimes rode Whitey.
One thing she loved was their fancy 2-seated buggy. Nettie and Ruth drove and Muriel got to go along. She also remembered the 1-seater buggy, which Nettie, Ruth and Gwen took to school. She got to ride with them. As they clopped along, they would pick up kids on the way. By the time they got to school, there were kids hanging out all over that buggy. Muriel was very proud of her father and talked about the goat ranch and how he was a contractor and built the lower part of the Coronado Trail.
The Webster family had a nice home. Her father made a good living. Like everyone else in town, they had an outhouse. It was quite a distance from the house, so they couldn’t wait until the last minute to go. Unlike most, however, they also had indoor plumbing. They had a well with a windmill pump.
When Muriel was a young girl, she was badly burned. She was always cold and had gotten too close to the fireplace. Her nightgown caught fire. Nettie and Ruth rolled her on the floor to put out the flames. Treatment for burns was much different then. To keep from getting infection, the doctor poured warm wax on her back. Aunt Ollie Webster, who lived close by would come over and help Della take off the wax and dress the wounds. Muriel was very angry because they held her down and the pain was so great.
On June 30, 1939 her brother-in-law, Silas Jarvis married Muriel and Max Layton. She had known Max for many years before they dated. They did much of their courting at the goat ranch. Reece remembered getting on the big old horse and following them around. They made their home for a year in Thatcher next door to Gordon and Bernice Stowell. Then, in 1940, they bought the home on Church Street where she lived until her death. She and Max had three children, Maxine Faye, James Arthur and Gwen Kaye, now deceased. Muriel’s love of family was apparent in the names of her children. Maxine was named after her father Max. Jim was the namesake of Uncle Jim Lyon (Aunt Gwen’s husband) and her brother Uncle Art. Gwen was named after her sister Gwen.
Gwen Kaye and her two daughters, Kliss Ann and Dasha lived with Muriel until Gwen’s death in 1996. In a letter sent to Dasha when Muriel was staying with Maxine in California in 2001, she stated: “I do get homesick, but should be grateful to have a daughter to care for me. She is so good to me.” Muriel was very thankful for Maxine. She often said how much she appreciated her and that she knew she couldn’t get along without her. In April 1990, Muriel had two knee replacements. She wore a brace on her legs after that. Maxine took her everywhere. For a woman who had a hard time getting around, she sure went a lot of places.
One of Muriel’s loves was teaching. She received her Elementary degree from NAU in July 1963 at the age of 49. She taught in Clifton, Safford and Pima. One of her loves was special education. She enjoyed the challenge and rejoiced in every small improvement her students made. She donated time to the Graham County ARC. In 1987 the Association of Retarded Citizens awarded her a certificate of appreciation for nomination as teacher of the year.
Muriel was also a long-time book club member. She enjoyed reading until her eyes refused to let her. You could always find a book or three in Muriel’s bed. If anyone was missing a good book, someone would say, “Have you looked on Grandma’s bed?”
Muriel was an active member in the church and held many positions. Her favorite was that of Cub Scout Leader. She loved the rough and tumble little boys. Max laughingly told the story of how Muriel once hi-jacked a Carnie at the fair. He did caricatures of people. She was quite impressed with this and wanted her Cub Scouts to try it. She approached the man and wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. Max relayed how embarrassed he was, but she wouldn’t give up. Finally the man agreed and showed up at the next Cub Scout meeting. He said that he really enjoy being with the boys and teaching them. Muriel really loved her scouts.
Muriel was also a great auntie/grandma. All the young nieces and nephews loved to visit. Aunt Muriel would take them crawdad fishing over in the college canal. She always seemed to have something planned outdoors. She adored children and passed that down to her own family. Every grandchild and niece and nephew that spent any time with Auntie/Grandma could feel of her love for them. Her friend Leila Branch, who has since passed away told of how Muriel taught her children that to pluralize the word “mouse”, you had to say “meeses” and to pluralize cactus, it was “cacteeses”. I quote, “As you can see, she was a big help to me in the education of my family.” She was also a comfort to Leila when she was pregnant with her first child. Muriel already knew about birthing babies, as she had already had Maxine, so when Leila complained about being so big and uncomfortable Muriel laughed at her and said, “Quit complaining, it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets any better.”
When the name Muriel Layton is spoken, there are two thoughts that come to mind; service and humor. Muriel was always in the service of her fellowman. She would do whatever she could to help someone in need or ease their pain. Her children often watched good food leave the house to benefit others. In Leila’s tribute to Muriel on her 90th birthday, she said that they would sometimes drop into her home unexpectedly. She would make them feel welcome and glad they stopped by. She’d rustle up something good for them to eat or drink. She always treated them with a snack of some kind.
In our family, Muriel was the one to depend on. She was there for any family member who needed help. As Nettie and Ruth aged, she was always there to take them places when needed. Not a day passed that they did not communicate. She loved her brothers and sisters and their spouses. Their children became her own. Muriel was there for every family function imaginable, if at all possible; baptisms, blessings, weddings, whatever the occasion. She had such joy in family and we all felt it. If anyone needed help, it was Muriel that was called. Everyone knew she would be there. One of the last words her sister-in-law, Bea Welker spoke were, “Get Muriel.”
As most know, she loved to garden. Many of us became happy recipients of her green thumb. We were loaded down with zucchini and tomatoes and other yummy things. Her roses were her love. She had beautiful bushes. It was a sad day when she could no longer care for her dear garden. She wanted to keep her thumb in it so bad that for a while, she would have someone come over and water and pick the vegetables for her.
As a young girl, she was allowed to cook a few times on the cook wagon for the workers on the ranch. She didn’t start out too well. Once after she had made something, a work hand told her not to worry. She’d get better when she got older. He was right. She did. Muriel could make the best lemon meringue pie on the planet. Another one of her joys was making candy. She and her sisters would get together at Christmas time and make tons of fudge, peanut brittle, divinity, caramels, Boston Creams, taffy and who knows what else? It was fun watching them dip chocolates. They turned out beautifully with a little swirl on the top. Many years ago she and Nettie came up with a pecan log where they made a divinity roll, wrapped it in homemade caramel, dipped it in chocolate, then rolled it in chopped pecans. They then sliced it in rounds. It was heavenly.
Muriel served her friends and neighbors. Leila wrote that she had a keen sense of knowing when someone was hurting inside privately. Without prying into the why of it, she found a way to talk to that person and help them understand what they could do to feel better. She had a strength inside that she was able to communicate to others.
Muriel outlived most of her friends, as well as the neighborhood. She lived in the only inhabited house on the block. One of her dear friends is here today, Vivian Lambson, who is only a year younger than Muriel. They have been friends almost since birth and lived down the road from one another. She said she didn’t know what her friend loved more, making fudge or playing bridge. She also loved to indulge in ice cream and drink Dr. Pepper.
Everyone who knew Muriel knew of her fun sense of humor. She loved to laugh and make others laugh, too. She always liked a good story. She would make fun of herself and her inability to see, hear, walk or remember. Muriel loved to take baths. One Wednesday afternoon she filled up her tub for a long hot soak. When she tried to get out, her legs would not let her. She finally gave up, knowing that someone would eventually come. When she got pruney, she drained the water and put towels over herself to keep warm. When she got too cold, she would fill up again. It was a nice system she had going. Finally, on Friday afternoon, Kliss came home and could not get in. After breaking into the house, she heard Grandma call. She ran to the bathroom and there she was, still resting in the tub. Kliss called the home teachers who came and got her out. She was asked, “Are you OK?” She replied, “Yes, I’m kind of hungry, but not very thirsty.”
One day, when she was at Walt and Jenene’s, still using a walker she walked through the family room, to get to another room on the other side. Her vision was poor, especially in dim light. When she got to the doorway to go through, she didn’t see the 6” step down and fell through to the hard floor. Chuy, a young man who was living in our apartment at the time, and Walt, jumped up to help her. They picked her up, got her on the couch and began cleaning up the places that were bleeding. Aunt Muriel said, “Boy, if I’d known I was going to get this much attention, I would have done this sooner.”
Everyone who knew Muriel has a story, or remembers some funny thing she said or how she made them laugh. Leila’s son Steven once said something that quite up sums Muriel Layton: “Aunt Muriel has such a laughing noise that it makes me feel like happiness lives inside of her and of me, too.”
In conclusion, one story Jim said she liked to tell, though it wasn’t about her, was when her parents owned the goat ranch out at Hot Canyon, which, I believe, is now part of the Apache Indian Reservation. They would sheer the goats, load it on mules and a worker would bring them out to Central or wherever the drop off place was. After that, they would just turn the mules loose and they would find their way back home to the ranch. They didn’t always make it back, however, because some of the good neighbors along the way would catch the mules and pen them up and try to find out who they belonged to. This held up business because Frank would have to go out hunting his mules. He finally got tired of it. The next time the mules were seen wandering home, there was a big sign draped over the lead mule, which read: LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M GOING HOME.
So, for you Auntie/Grandma, we will love you and keep you in our heart’s fondest memories. Thanks for the great examples of love, compassion, humor. We are all better for having known you. Now, we will leave you alone and let you go home to your family and loved ones, knowing that one day we will see you again.
Photos: (1) Three Little Websters--George, Muriel, & Art, circa 1916; (2) Max T. Layton; (3) Lovely Muriel at age 28 with Baby Maxine, 1940 (4) Little Jim- James Arthur Layton, age 9, 1953; (5) Jim Layton's marriage to Lyndi Elrey--Bill & Lyn Elrey, Lyndi & Jim Layton, Muriel & Max Layton--1970