My parents valued education. My mother was one of four students in her high school graduating class. My dad, six years older than her in the same town, had only about three months of education per year, so he said. His parents were farmers who needed him for harvest every fall and planting every spring. By the time my parents met as adults, she had a bachelor’s in music from the University of Wyoming in Laramie. He had GI benefits for school, from his service in the Pacific during World War II. After thirteen years of marriage and five children, he graduated with a bachelor’s in business education.

My mother worked as a school teacher up until my oldest brother was about 14. She told me once that she had been taught to expect to be able to do everything, career, children, home. She said it was not true; children need their mothers at home. My brothers and sisters needed her. During my childhood she was home when I was home, before and after school every day.

I was born in Byron, Wyoming; soon after my birth the family moved to Greybull, Wyoming, where my dad taught in the high school. He was proud of his students; one of them went on to start a grocery store, the largest in Greybull. He also said, ruefully, that that student had money going in, which helped. My dad, the teetotaller and former farmer, didn’t fit in with other teachers’ culture. His contract was not renewed and he switched to working in a lumber yard and then as a custodian. He got up early every morning to prepare a full breakfast, start the car and scrape frost off the windows so my sister and I could attend early morning seminary before school. He was there to drive us home from swim practice. He worked hard; we knew he expected us to work hard.

My mother taught piano and accompanied choirs and soloists. She showed up to the school often enough that all my teachers knew who she was. Many of the same teachers were there for my youngest brother, seven years older than me; they knew him, and therefore her. My point is, she was there. She was involved. My dad supported by providing for us, by reading, and by learning how to fix literally anything that broke in our house. He could fix cars, though I remember my brothers doing more of that. He had a garden reference tome from Reader’s Digest that he referred to often.

My mother and father both gave their attention and interest to me and my children. They loved my husband like a son. They were heartbroken when he died suddenly. But, like their pioneer forebears, they asked practical questions: how will you get along financially? Will you continue to homeschool? They offered to find a place to live near them so they could help with my children—this when they were 84 and 90 years old! It would have been my sister and her husband finding the place, which they were perfectly willing to do; all my family wanted to help in some way.

My brothers and sisters kept learning; several of them got college degrees. They made sure their children learned, some by homeschooling, some by working at a college, some by starting a business with them. I’m grateful to keep learning. I’ve met people who shy away from new ideas; my family enjoys learning and I love it!