Pictured: My mother, my husband, Milton, and my baby sister, Claudia
My mom had unique ways of teaching lessons. Even though she has been gone a long time, her children are still using "Mom's Method" to teach their children and their grandchildren. My mother knew exactly how to use a teaching moment. One I will never forget is the incident I lovingly refer to as, "Ten Cents Worth of Hamburger."
In today’s market I don’t know what anyone could do with ten cents worth of hamburger, but when I was a child ten cents could buy a pretty good size chunk of ground beef. It was enough to add to a pot full of garden vegetables and make a nice stew or soup for our family of eight children.
I was about seven years old and “money was hard to come by,” as the old saying expresses quite well. It was the era before World War II and the beginning of the Great Depression, before inflation became a common word. On this particular summer day, mother called me and made a request.
“Please take a dime out of the money drawer,” she said. (The money drawer was a small drawer in the kitchen cabinet where mother put a few coins to be used for emergencies.) “And go to the butcher shop and get ten cents worth of hamburger,” she instructed.
Mother had already put on a pot of vegetables ready to make stew. I loved going to the store or the butcher shop. We lived in a small area and all of the available stores were built around a four square town. In that small town we were reasonably safe to go places alone, even as children. Mother sent me to the butcher shop, which was in the middle of the second block of town. The butcher shop was locally owned and the meat was always very fresh.
I went to the drawer to find the dime and indeed that was all there was in the emergency drawer . . . one single dime. I took it out and then consulted mother once more before leaving.
“Mom, if there is any money left over, can I have it?”
“There won’t be any money left over. One dime buys ten cents worth of meat and that is all.”
“But if there is any left over can I have it?” I persisted.
“There won’t be any left over.”
I persisted with the same question several more times and mother, finally tired of explaining said: “If there is any left over, of course you could have it, but there won’t be any left. Believe me.”
With the dime in my hand I started happily off for my trip around the boardwalks that circled the four blocks of town. One of the stores along the path was a penny candy store where we could buy a large stick of candy for one penny. I thought about it I decided if I only got eight cents worth of hamburger there would be two pennies left and mother had said if there was any money left over I could have it. I justified my plan with my mother’s words and honesty felt I would be satisfied.
As I rounded the corner of the first block, I realized due to the path I had taken that I would pass the penny candy store before I came to the butcher shop. It was then the second plan formed in my head. Why not buy the candy first and then go on to the butcher shop to get the eight cents worth of hamburger?
We had very few sweets in our family in those days and I dearly loved candy, so I was satisfied with my justification. As I approached the penny candy store I put my creative ideas into action and walked in, selecting two nice sticks of candy. I handed the lady my money and she gave me the candy and the change, which consisted of one nickel and three pennies.
I opened the candy and began eating it as I skipped along to the butcher shop in the middle of the next block. While I enjoyed the candy a little guilt formed inside of me. To see disapproval reflected in my mother's eyes was always my worst punishment. I'd been taught to be honest, but even more than feeling pains of dishonesty, I wanted to avoid the disapproval in my mother’s eyes. I decided to make sure my mother would never know she had only eight cents worth of hamburger instead of ten.
I had finished the two sticks of candy by the time I arrived at the butcher shop. I went inside and gave my order to the butcher for eight cents worth of hamburger.
“I'm sorry,” said the butcher that knew my family and me very well. “We are out of hamburger. We're grinding at the slaughter house this morning, but we should have some this afternoon.”
Holding the pennies and nickel tight in my fist, I left the butcher shop with a very sick feeling inside my stomach. Never, in all the times I'd gone to the butcher shop in town with my mother or alone, had I ever known them to be out of hamburger before. I hadn't planned on that possibility. What would I do? I envisioned the look I knew I would see in my mother’s eyes and I wanted to die on the spot, or at least fall in a hole and be injured so badly that I wouldn’t have to face my folly.
Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t depend on a hole in the ground to open up for me, and out of the few cars we had in that day there wasn’t a chance that I could be hit by a car, or even run over by somebody’s horse. I walked home slowly while my mind racing, searching for a plan. By the time I arrived I’d decided that I would slip in the house, put the money in the drawer and then go for the meat later in the afternoon.
I got in the house and put the money back in the little drawer without detection. “They are out of hamburger,” I quickly announced to mother. “They'll have some this afternoon. I'll get it for you then.”
Mother nodded, trusting me and went on with her work. With my mind relieved and my stomach partially unknotted, I went outside to play. However, an incident latter in the afternoon brought the knot back with double grief.
I was still out playing when mother decided it was time to go to the butcher shop again. She asked my younger sister to get the dime and go for the hamburger. I came in from outside just in time to hear my sister’s report after she’d searched for the dime in the drawer.
“Mother I can't find the dime,” she said. “There's a nickel and three pennies, that's all.”
I was about seven years old and “money was hard to come by,” as the old saying expresses quite well. It was the era before World War II and the beginning of the Great Depression, before inflation became a common word. On this particular summer day, mother called me and made a request.
“Please take a dime out of the money drawer,” she said. (The money drawer was a small drawer in the kitchen cabinet where mother put a few coins to be used for emergencies.) “And go to the butcher shop and get ten cents worth of hamburger,” she instructed.
Mother had already put on a pot of vegetables ready to make stew. I loved going to the store or the butcher shop. We lived in a small area and all of the available stores were built around a four square town. In that small town we were reasonably safe to go places alone, even as children. Mother sent me to the butcher shop, which was in the middle of the second block of town. The butcher shop was locally owned and the meat was always very fresh.
I went to the drawer to find the dime and indeed that was all there was in the emergency drawer . . . one single dime. I took it out and then consulted mother once more before leaving.
“Mom, if there is any money left over, can I have it?”
“There won’t be any money left over. One dime buys ten cents worth of meat and that is all.”
“But if there is any left over can I have it?” I persisted.
“There won’t be any left over.”
I persisted with the same question several more times and mother, finally tired of explaining said: “If there is any left over, of course you could have it, but there won’t be any left. Believe me.”
With the dime in my hand I started happily off for my trip around the boardwalks that circled the four blocks of town. One of the stores along the path was a penny candy store where we could buy a large stick of candy for one penny. I thought about it I decided if I only got eight cents worth of hamburger there would be two pennies left and mother had said if there was any money left over I could have it. I justified my plan with my mother’s words and honesty felt I would be satisfied.
As I rounded the corner of the first block, I realized due to the path I had taken that I would pass the penny candy store before I came to the butcher shop. It was then the second plan formed in my head. Why not buy the candy first and then go on to the butcher shop to get the eight cents worth of hamburger?
We had very few sweets in our family in those days and I dearly loved candy, so I was satisfied with my justification. As I approached the penny candy store I put my creative ideas into action and walked in, selecting two nice sticks of candy. I handed the lady my money and she gave me the candy and the change, which consisted of one nickel and three pennies.
I opened the candy and began eating it as I skipped along to the butcher shop in the middle of the next block. While I enjoyed the candy a little guilt formed inside of me. To see disapproval reflected in my mother's eyes was always my worst punishment. I'd been taught to be honest, but even more than feeling pains of dishonesty, I wanted to avoid the disapproval in my mother’s eyes. I decided to make sure my mother would never know she had only eight cents worth of hamburger instead of ten.
I had finished the two sticks of candy by the time I arrived at the butcher shop. I went inside and gave my order to the butcher for eight cents worth of hamburger.
“I'm sorry,” said the butcher that knew my family and me very well. “We are out of hamburger. We're grinding at the slaughter house this morning, but we should have some this afternoon.”
Holding the pennies and nickel tight in my fist, I left the butcher shop with a very sick feeling inside my stomach. Never, in all the times I'd gone to the butcher shop in town with my mother or alone, had I ever known them to be out of hamburger before. I hadn't planned on that possibility. What would I do? I envisioned the look I knew I would see in my mother’s eyes and I wanted to die on the spot, or at least fall in a hole and be injured so badly that I wouldn’t have to face my folly.
Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t depend on a hole in the ground to open up for me, and out of the few cars we had in that day there wasn’t a chance that I could be hit by a car, or even run over by somebody’s horse. I walked home slowly while my mind racing, searching for a plan. By the time I arrived I’d decided that I would slip in the house, put the money in the drawer and then go for the meat later in the afternoon.
I got in the house and put the money back in the little drawer without detection. “They are out of hamburger,” I quickly announced to mother. “They'll have some this afternoon. I'll get it for you then.”
Mother nodded, trusting me and went on with her work. With my mind relieved and my stomach partially unknotted, I went outside to play. However, an incident latter in the afternoon brought the knot back with double grief.
I was still out playing when mother decided it was time to go to the butcher shop again. She asked my younger sister to get the dime and go for the hamburger. I came in from outside just in time to hear my sister’s report after she’d searched for the dime in the drawer.
“Mother I can't find the dime,” she said. “There's a nickel and three pennies, that's all.”
At first I wanted to offer to run to the butcher shop. The next minute I wanted to run and hide so I wouldn't have to face what I knew mother had already discovered. I ran to hide, but I could still hear what was being said.
“No dime?” my mother continued. “Did you look carefully?” Mother didn't like to believe anything bad about her children, but she always had a way of finding out everything we did. As I listened to the conversation from my hiding place in the upper bedroom, my throat was so tight it was difficult to swallow.
The talking stopped and the silence that followed was even harder to listen to. I knew my mother was checking the drawer. A few minutes later my sister was on her way to the store with the nickel and pennies and mother was on her way to find me.
I wasn't very good at keeping things from mother, least of all, a secret hiding place. When she called within range, I came out of hiding, but pretended complete innocence.
“What can you tell me about the money in the drawer?” she asked, using a direct approach.
“What money are you talking about?” I said nonchalantly. I can't believe I said it even now! I could tell my mother had figured out exactly what occurred that day. And she could tell that I was aware she knew it too.
“Where is the dime I sent you to get? There was only one dime in that drawer,” she said.
“I put it in the drawer,” I said grabbing for a half-truth. I had put the money in the drawer, but I hated the thought that my mother knew I had lied.
From that moment on there was no silence. First mother talked about how important it was to be able to talk to her. She inquired, “Hadn't she been my friend as well as my mother? Couldn’t I tell her the truth?” As she continued to speak to me, I felt worse and worse. My mother was the dearest person in my life and each lie I told only made my inner pain deeper. Yet I wasn't willing to admit what we both knew was true. As was her usual approach, mother didn’t ever lose her temper and there was no sign of mistrust in her voice, at that point. She didn’t punish me in any way or directly accuse me of lying to her. I think I’d have felt better if she had accused and sent me to my room, or given me a dozen other punishments. However, she didn’t do any of the things I imagined she might do. I was allowed to play without retribution until dinnertime.
As I finished setting the table she asked me again if I had told her the truth. I nodded. My mother suggested I go to my room to be alone while the rest of the family ate dinner, just so I could think and be sure I had told the truth. She said she wanted to make sure she understood what I was thinking. I was just as sure that I didn’t want her to know any of the things in my mind at that time.
I went to my room and took the pain in my stomach and the hurt in my heart with me. Dinnertime was a nice time at our house. As the family gathered and sat down I could hear them talking and laughing and I felt very much alone. While the family was eating, mother came to my room to talk to me again. She asked again if I had I told her the truth? Still she didn’t ever accuse me of telling a lie.
I don't remember the words that finally brought about my confession. I do remember that no matter how terrible I felt, I could not bring myself to admit the lie. Mother sat beside me and talked and asked questions and somehow she finally helped me say the words. When the confession was out at last, I burst into tears. I cried and cried, sobbing uncontrollably. My mother lovingly took me in her arms and rocked me, thanking me for telling the truth.
“You’ll feel better now,” she said as she rocked and held me close.
I remember that I did feel better. Until I confessed the lie, I felt only anger. I kept thinking to myself, “Mother knows what I did. Why is she bugging me about it? Why can’t she just let the whole thing drop?”
That was not my mother’s method. She knew how important it was for me, not her, to confess the wrong I had done. She had been just as determined that I should confess my guilt, as I was that I would never admit it. At length she won and when at last the admission was over and the tears finally dried, my mother said gently, with a smile, “Let’s go down to the kitchen now. I’ve saved you a plate of dinner. We’ll eat together.”
Years later, as a young mother myself, this recalled incident taught me the wisdom of my mother’s lesson. She had been a young mother then, with no formal higher education. Her own mother had passed away when she was 14 months old. How could she have known how important it would be for me and to the rest of my life, to admit the lie we both knew?
I am grateful for that memorable time of hurt, that time of guilt and that time of confession and repentance. I am so aware now that we only progress when we take responsibility for our own actions. Even when Heavenly Father forgives us, and in this case, my mother forgave me and told me she would forgive me even before I admitted the lie, we still have to forgive ourselves before we can move forward. My mother knew this and didn't give up until she had helped me to forgive myself. The lesson learned was more valuable than the ten cents worth of hamburger. ~ A True Story, by Shirley Sealy
“No dime?” my mother continued. “Did you look carefully?” Mother didn't like to believe anything bad about her children, but she always had a way of finding out everything we did. As I listened to the conversation from my hiding place in the upper bedroom, my throat was so tight it was difficult to swallow.
The talking stopped and the silence that followed was even harder to listen to. I knew my mother was checking the drawer. A few minutes later my sister was on her way to the store with the nickel and pennies and mother was on her way to find me.
I wasn't very good at keeping things from mother, least of all, a secret hiding place. When she called within range, I came out of hiding, but pretended complete innocence.
“What can you tell me about the money in the drawer?” she asked, using a direct approach.
“What money are you talking about?” I said nonchalantly. I can't believe I said it even now! I could tell my mother had figured out exactly what occurred that day. And she could tell that I was aware she knew it too.
“Where is the dime I sent you to get? There was only one dime in that drawer,” she said.
“I put it in the drawer,” I said grabbing for a half-truth. I had put the money in the drawer, but I hated the thought that my mother knew I had lied.
From that moment on there was no silence. First mother talked about how important it was to be able to talk to her. She inquired, “Hadn't she been my friend as well as my mother? Couldn’t I tell her the truth?” As she continued to speak to me, I felt worse and worse. My mother was the dearest person in my life and each lie I told only made my inner pain deeper. Yet I wasn't willing to admit what we both knew was true. As was her usual approach, mother didn’t ever lose her temper and there was no sign of mistrust in her voice, at that point. She didn’t punish me in any way or directly accuse me of lying to her. I think I’d have felt better if she had accused and sent me to my room, or given me a dozen other punishments. However, she didn’t do any of the things I imagined she might do. I was allowed to play without retribution until dinnertime.
As I finished setting the table she asked me again if I had told her the truth. I nodded. My mother suggested I go to my room to be alone while the rest of the family ate dinner, just so I could think and be sure I had told the truth. She said she wanted to make sure she understood what I was thinking. I was just as sure that I didn’t want her to know any of the things in my mind at that time.
I went to my room and took the pain in my stomach and the hurt in my heart with me. Dinnertime was a nice time at our house. As the family gathered and sat down I could hear them talking and laughing and I felt very much alone. While the family was eating, mother came to my room to talk to me again. She asked again if I had I told her the truth? Still she didn’t ever accuse me of telling a lie.
I don't remember the words that finally brought about my confession. I do remember that no matter how terrible I felt, I could not bring myself to admit the lie. Mother sat beside me and talked and asked questions and somehow she finally helped me say the words. When the confession was out at last, I burst into tears. I cried and cried, sobbing uncontrollably. My mother lovingly took me in her arms and rocked me, thanking me for telling the truth.
“You’ll feel better now,” she said as she rocked and held me close.
I remember that I did feel better. Until I confessed the lie, I felt only anger. I kept thinking to myself, “Mother knows what I did. Why is she bugging me about it? Why can’t she just let the whole thing drop?”
That was not my mother’s method. She knew how important it was for me, not her, to confess the wrong I had done. She had been just as determined that I should confess my guilt, as I was that I would never admit it. At length she won and when at last the admission was over and the tears finally dried, my mother said gently, with a smile, “Let’s go down to the kitchen now. I’ve saved you a plate of dinner. We’ll eat together.”
Years later, as a young mother myself, this recalled incident taught me the wisdom of my mother’s lesson. She had been a young mother then, with no formal higher education. Her own mother had passed away when she was 14 months old. How could she have known how important it would be for me and to the rest of my life, to admit the lie we both knew?
I am grateful for that memorable time of hurt, that time of guilt and that time of confession and repentance. I am so aware now that we only progress when we take responsibility for our own actions. Even when Heavenly Father forgives us, and in this case, my mother forgave me and told me she would forgive me even before I admitted the lie, we still have to forgive ourselves before we can move forward. My mother knew this and didn't give up until she had helped me to forgive myself. The lesson learned was more valuable than the ten cents worth of hamburger. ~ A True Story, by Shirley Sealy
[The picture above was taken about 1940, prior to my high school graduation. My mother died five years later on October 9, 1945.]
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