|
a.
|
Note: N745 I am going to accede to Mom’s lifelong wish, which was to be named just “Betty.” Her parents intended her to be named “Elizabeth Ann” but never managed to make this legal, as we see below. Mom’s original birth certificate states that she was born 22 April 1914 at 6:15 AM and that her full name is “Stanford.” (A note after the blank says that “If child is not yet named, make supplemental report, as directed.”) Mom’s parents intended to name her Elizabeth Ann, but they never made the supplemental report. At any rate she was never called anything but “Betty.” As an adult, she signed her checks “Betty S. Motteler.” She often said that she did not understand why people would name their children something only to call them by a nickname. (Her brothers were named likewise, James was always called “Jim,” and Richard was always called “Dick.”) She gave her own children names which could not be made into nicknames, namely Zane, Gail (not “Abigail”), Terry (not “Terence”), and Lee (not “Leland”). It seems she went through most of her life legally named only “Stanford” and always called “Betty.” On 2 Sept. 1975 she filed an affidavit for correction of a record, which legally changed the name on her birth certificate from Stanford to Betty Stanford. No Elizabeth, no Ann, just Betty Stanford. This, therefore, was her legal name at the time of her death. Mom was born in her parents’ home on Maple Park. The homes on the north side of Maple Park have been torn down to make way for the Capitol, but those on the south side, including the one where she and Uncle Jom were born, are still standing (2003). The Maple Park house has been refurbished and looks fairly good. I have attached pictures of the original house and as it looks today. Grandma (Anna Reinhart Stanford) designed the house. Indicative of her deep love of her family is this poem that Mom wrote when I was a high school student; it did not come to light until after Dad died, when we found it in his effects: Ironing clothes is such a chore— The endless creases are a bore; - So till I get my ironing done I'll sing a song of every one, - Every one whose clothes I press From Father's shirt to daughter's dress. I bought thls shirt for Dad one day, A blue one that I thought quite gay., A blue one that was right in style. He wouldn't wear it for awhile. "Looks like a work shirt"'s what he said. But gently, gently him I led Until he wore it—for he's good, And I love him as a good wife should. Now the cuffs are slightly frayed, And I deplore the price I paid. This shirt belongs to my oldest son— The big teen-ager, that's the one. It is a bold and splashy plaid For he is quite a virile lad. His voice is growing deep and strong; He's growing up, it won't be long. He is a student, a thlnker deep; His nose in a book he'll always keep Until our country calls the score And asks him to win its silly war. Now, this is mine; of me I sing. 0f me I can't say anything— except that I try to do my best And not spend all my time in rest. I've a loving heart and a willing soul; If the body's strong I'll reach my goal— To raise my children straight and fine Because their happiness is mine; To keep my husband loving me Till I'm quite old—say ninety-three. Here's the boy that's in-between. His shirt better days has seen. It's a plaid that's very faded With cuffs and collar looking jaded. What he wears gets worn and worn, And generally badly torn. But he's a boy that's just all boy; His energy fills me with joy And sometimes drives me to distractlon, Because I can't stand so much action. And here ls a skirt for a teen-age girl; A dirndl with a square-dance whirl. And here is her blouse that's getting small Because she's growing up so tall. She is a gay and winsome lass— To me she stands above the mass; A picture of youth and budding beauty. To her I'll try to do my duty— I'll teach her to be a good housewife, For I'm sure that will be her life. This last small shirt is least in size—- For the littlest boy, you realize. I love him as much as all the others; His sister and his two big brothers. His character is in the making; As I shape him my heart starts quaking—- For as he grows, I have no baby. I guess that's good for him, though, maybe. I thank my stars that he still clings A little, to my apron strings. Thus, as I iron, I sing away The cares that come with ironing day. Each garment holds a treasured thought Of someone that I love a lot. I could not wish to be free Of those who make my work for me; For as they passed before my eyes I see with sudden sweet surprlse That as I sang of every one OH! Praise the Lord! My ironing’s done! Mom’s obituary: Elizabeth A. Motteler Elizabeth Anna “Betty” Motteler, 74, of Kapaa, Hawaii, formerly of Olympia, died of heart problems and a stroke Tuesday, May 10, 1988, in her home. She was born April 22, 1914, in Olympia, to James N. and Anna (Reinhart) Stanford. Hers was a pioneer family that first settled here in 1856. She grew up in Olympia and was graduated from Olympia High School in 1930. She attended Washington State University from 1930 to 1933 [actually 1934 — ZCM]. She was married to Roy H. Motteler in Wenatchee. She had lived in Honolulu, Hawaii, for 15 years before moving to Kapaa, on the island of Kauai, Hawaii, ten years ago. She was a lifetime homemaker. Mrs. Motteler enjoyed playing piano and was a longtime student of Ellen Whiting Phillips. She had been a mamber of the Eenetai Club and Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority. Surviving are three sons, Zane, Olympia [sic! I actually lived in Los Osos, California in 1988 — ZCM], Terry, Kapaa, Hawaii, and Lee, Honolulu, Hawaii; one daughter, Gail, Washington, D. C.; one brother, James R. Stanford, Olympia; also six grandchildren. Interment was on the island of Kauai, Hawaii, on May 11, 1988. Arrangements were by Kauai Mortuary, Koloa, Hawaii.
|