Some years back, a charter member of the
my writers group, Gregory Kaspar, wrote of his mother, Josephine Bsales
Kaspar, and we published one of her works in our 2020 Encore Writers Group
Anthology, There be Writers Here, which can be found as ISBN 9798699228393 and is available for purchase on Amazon.
I may have shared that my mother also did some
writing. Since I’ve not lately been able to find my voice to write, I thought I
should at least share some of her work with this august body.
My mother, Laura Florence Rasmussen, born into
this life in a log cabin during the cold, bleak days of February 1909, grew up
on a small family farm along the banks of the Snake River near Burley, Idaho.
She graduated from high school in 1927, one of the first in her bloodline to
have done so. I remember her telling me in my youth a little of her memories of
high school days and especially fondly recalling her senior year drama class
production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a
production in which she had a speaking part. Considering what I have learned
over the years about this fantastical work of stagecraft, I wonder how it was
presented and how well it was received in 1927 by the parents of the students
in this mostly Mormon community. Well, things were thoroughly modern by then,
if you believe the lyrics as sung by Julie Andrews in 1967, and had, according
to Richard Rogers in an earlier work, “…gone about as fer as they can go.” I do know that she knew how
to dance both the Charleston and the Lindy and would occasionally demonstrate
those dances for me, usually in our kitchen while wearing an apron. At Grange
Hall dances I never saw my father dance anything but the waltz, the two-step,
or the round-a-bouts of square dancing. Other than those occasions, I never saw
him dance at all!
During the early 1950s, my mother was regularly
published in a weekly article in the Sunday edition of the Twin Falls, Idaho
Times News. I very clearly recall seeing clippings of some of her pieces when I
was a pre-teen and her telling me what they meant. She wrote in a humorous and
satirical vein about the weather, local government, buyers (sometimes sharp)
dealings with farmers, and associated gossip in a column called ‘Pot Shots,’ as
if she were a citizen writing to the editor, signing her missives with the
pseudonym Sy Clone. I especially remember one article from a clipping
harpooning a local city council's decision to eliminate the public bus system
in Twin Falls. A decision that was finally reversed in 2023 to meet Federal
requirements. Sadly, I have been unable to reproduce any of those clippings in
that small-town newspaper’s archives. I can find digital online photos of the
paper’s pages with the ‘Pot Shots’ column heading clearly visible, but nothing
else is readable in those copies.
She also wrote poetry. She said the word,
‘poetry’ only applied in the loosest terms to her work. So far as I know, none
of the poems were ever published. Amongst my keepsakes is an e-document of 60
pages with her musings. This was originally in a journal in her handwriting but
has been transcribed by my niece. As the daughter of my eldest sibling, she has
custody of the original. Many of my mother's short poems are whimsical. Probably none
rise to the level of ‘literature.’ Nevertheless, I will share a few samples
here. I am copying them as they are transcribed to my e-document, spelling and
punctuation unchanged.
For reasons I will explain after this first
example, I start with a poem she titled Inspiration. It is the 28th
entry in the collection. Were I a poet, I may have written this with my mother as subject.
Inspiration
Among
my mother’s virtues,
The
thing I love the best,
How
vividly, I recall
Her
radiant happiness.
Always,
as she did her work,
She
hummed a lively song;
And
to me her singing seemed
To
speed the work along.
Now,
that she is laid to rest,
And
from her I sadly part,
Still
her joyous singing
Will
live on in my heart.
And
often now, I sadly wish,
When
everything goes wrong,
I
could rouse from life’s nightmares
And
waken to her song.
But
then I stop to ponder,
That
I, too, must be strong
And
fortify mine own heart
With
glad, inspiring song!
Laura
Florence R. Moyes
Now, my reason for choosing this piece as my
first to represent her work: First and foremost, some of my earliest childhood
memories are of the sound of Mother singing happily as she worked in her
brightly sunlit kitchen. Her movements over the cheap linoleum flooring were dance-like as she baked or cooked or just simply cleaned. Her kneading of bread
dough on the yellow and white Formica countertop was always in rhythm with her
singing. For such strenuous work, she would select a lively and rhythmic song
such as Harry Belafonte’s version of “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song).” Lighter
work might be accompanied by a work such as Billie Holliday’s “On the Sunny
Side of the Street,” or Debbie Reynolds’ “Singin’ in the Rain.” She knew all
the words by heart.
I mentioned that her singing seemed happy. Her
voice rang clear and as bright as the sunlight streaming through the kitchen
windows. The second thing influencing my selection is, my mother had a rough
life with much hardship and some tragedy, as did her mother. In neither case
should the happiness in their voices be taken for granted. Reading the above
poem, with my mother talking about her mother’s happy singing and referencing
life’s nightmares is, to me, reflective and insightful of the human condition. That
bright, streaming sunshine has the power to reveal dust particles afloat in the
air and old stains and smudges on the bright beige, yellow, green, and blue
linoleum. Sadness and disappointment must have been hidden behind hope and
faith in their voices.
Now, to lighten the mood a bit, I will share
some of her more whimsical work.
Call
on Carter
When
you all get married,
And
I know you all will
And
your hubby gets grouchy
Tho
he's not really ill-
Hop
in your car - step on the starter
And
hurry to visit Mr. Earl Carter.
Why
visit this gent, you might ask
He'll
give you something in a flask
The
contents will fill your man with cheer
No,
it isn't just a glass of beer.
This
something will make your man happy
So
happy you will think he's sappy.
He'll
feel so good - I just know
He'll
want to take you to a show;
Next
morning he'll rise early - maybe
And
even offer to tend the baby;
And
when his blues all disappear
He'll
even call you honey-dear.
What
is Carter's miracle in the flask
Ladies,
you will want to ask,
This
stuff that takes away all ills
It's
- Carter's little liver pills!
Florence Moyes
As it is
getting late this Tuesday evening, and I have miles to go before I sleep—but I
exaggerate as I plagiarize Robert Frost—I am only about 30 feet from my
bedroom. I will end with only one more entry from her work. I could tell you
much more of her life and some of the life of her mother, but I will leave that
for another time. Here’s the last entry
for tonight:
Ga-Ga
I'm
almost going ga-ga
Listening
to the radio's blaa-blaa
So
instead,
I'll
go to bed.
L. F. M.
