Perhaps the smallness of that world made my early loss more bearable, simply because I was looked after and loved by so many. It made my later loss harder to recover from, however, because it was a collective loss, a very young life snuffed out on the brink, a shock to the sleepy community. No one expected me to move on. Like a shoe that has lost its mate is never worn again, I had lost my matching part and didn’t know how to run barefoot.
The early loss I refer to was the death of my mother. I was just shy of nine years when Janelle Jensen, wife and mother, succumbed to breast cancer. I remember clearly how terrified I was when her beautiful hair had fallen out, and she wore a little pink stocking cap on her baby smooth head. She laughed and said she would get a blonde wig to finally match the rest of the family. She never did; she was gone too soon. She had been diagnosed with cancer just after Christmas. The cancer had already spread to her lungs and was inoperable. By the 4th of July she’d already been dead for two weeks. I remember hearing the first sounds of celebration commemorating our country’s independence, hating the independence that had been suddenly forced upon me. The jarring crack, boom, and wizz of neighborhood fireworks had my dad’s lips tightening and his hands clenching.
He’d looked at us, his four somber tow-heads, and tried to smile.
“Whaddaya say, J-Crew?” His voice had cracked on my mother’s favorite family nickname. “You wanna drive into Nephi and see the big fireworks?”
My dad’s name is Jim, and my mother thought their names starting with the same letter was just further proof that they belonged together. So she named each of her babies a ‘J’ name to fit the mold. She wasn’t terribly original, because in Levan you’ll find families with all ‘K’ names, all ‘B’ names, all ‘Q’ names. You name the letter, and we’ve got it. People even have ‘themes’ for their children’s names - giving them monikers like Brodeo and Justa Cowgirl. I’m not kidding.
So in my family we were all J’s - Jim, Janelle, Jacob, Jared, Johnny, and Josie Jo Jensen-the “J Crew.” The only problem with that was that whenever my mom needed one of us she had to run through the litany of ‘J’ names before she stumbled on the right one. I don’t know why I remember this, small as it was, but in the days and weeks before my mom died, I don’t ever remember her tripping over any of our names. Perhaps the distracting details of daily life that had once made her tongue tied dissolved in their insignificance, and she gave her rapt attention to our every word, our every expression, our every move.
We didn’t make it in to see the big fireworks that year. My brothers and I wandered out to watch the neighbors set off bottle rockets and spinners, and my dad spent the night in the barn trying to escape the mocking sounds of revelry. Hard work became my dad’s anecdote to depression; he worked endlessly and let alcohol blur the cracks in between.
We had a small farm with chickens and cows and horses, but farming didn’t pay well, and my dad worked at the power plant in Nephi to make a living. With three brothers who were much older than I, my duties on our little farm were minimal. My dad did need a housekeeper and a cook though, and I expected myself to fill my mother’s shoes. Jacob, Jared, and Johnny were 7, 6, and 5 years older than I was; My mom always said I was a beautiful surprise and, when she was alive, I had relished the fact that I was the baby girl, doted upon by the whole family. But with Mom gone everything changed, and nobody wanted a baby anymore.
Initially, we had more help than we knew what to do with. Levan is the only town I know where no assignments are ever made to feed a family after a funeral. Traditionally, we have our viewings the day before the funeral and then again for an hour right before the service. After the funeral and the burial the family and friends come back to the church for a huge meal served up by the good women of the town. No one ever says “I’ll bring a cake,” or “I’ll supply the potatoes.” The food just arrives - a plethora of meats, salads, and side dishes, cakes, pastries and pies. The women of Levan can make a spread unlike anything you’ve ever seen. I remember walking along the tables laden with food after my mother’s funeral, looking at the beautiful assortment, and not having any desire to eat a single bite. I was too young to understand the concept of comfort food.
The bounty continued for days on end after the funeral. Someone different brought dinner every night for three weeks. Nettie Yates, an older woman from down the road, came over almost every other evening and organized the food, putting most of it in containers and freezing it for later. No family could possibly eat the amount of food we received, even a family with three teenage boys. But eventually the food trickled to a stop, and the people of Levan moved on to other tragedies.
My dad wasn’t very accomplished in the kitchen, and after months of peanut butter sandwiches and cereal, I asked my Aunt Louise to show me how to make a couple of things. She came over on a Saturday and showed me the basics. I made her outline in minute detail how to boil water (Keep the lid on ’til it boils, pull it off once it does!) how to fry eggs (You gotta keep the burner on low to cook eggs!) how to fry hamburger (Keep turnin’ it ’til there’s no more pink). I wrote everything down very carefully, making Louise describe each step. I wrote out recipes for pancakes (turn them over when they get big moon craters in them), spaghetti (a touch of brown sugar in the sauce was Louise’s secret), and chocolate chip cookies (it’s the shortening that makes them soft and puffy). Louise was frazzled at the end of the day, but I had lists and lists of very detailed instructions, written in my childish hand, taped to the fridge.