Summer 1945

Group of World War II heavy bombers on a mission

Thunder filled our white frame house.
Our family ran outside and looked up,
Airplanes in formation roared overhead,
Uncountable flying machines rumbled above,
I grabbed my five year old sister’s hand,
She squeezed it tightly,
Staring upward toward the silver slivers in the sky,
I shaded my eyes with my other hand.

Mother called, “Maybe, maybe Uncle Bryant is the
Pilot in one of them.”
That made them seem friendlier,
We all waved wildly,
But we still clung to
Each other.      

                                                      Cerita M. Hewett
                                                      October 16,2002

LaVon Lyons Moore

Pioneer Mother


LaVon Lyons Moore

She lived, she really lived!
At six she ran to school from her Alberta home,
Bundled up against the freezing wind,
Arriving at the school chilled to the bone.
Standing by the warm wood stove,
She thawed too quickly and fainted,
But she lived.Lyons trek map

When ten she walked from the Canadian plains
Beside a covered wagon,
Eight hundred miles to the Boise Valley,
Feared the distant mountains they must pass,
Comforted by her father’s counsel of unseen roads,
She continued walking, and walking,
Laid on her back in the Mts. under berry bushes,
Picked her first fresh fruit,
Ate until her stomach was full.
Then walked on.Lyons wagon crew


Another day she rode her bother Ivan’s
Horse all day long,
Became violently ill in the night,
Terrific pain in the abdomen,
Yet she lived, persisted, and walked on.


In the icy winter weather,
At Nampa her family boarded a train,
Rode two-hundred miles to Burley, Idaho
Having left on June 10, 1914 and arrived Thanksgiving Day
To live in a tent until something better could be made.
LaVon grew and matured.


Contracted Typhoid FeverLavon Lyons Moore portait
Lost much of her hair,
Lived isolated in a bedroom with her father
For a month or more,
With his tender care she
Endured and recovered.


During the Depression LaVon,
Dropped out of high school to help the family,
Worked in town as a secretary because she could type,
Served as a fountain waitress because they needed her,
Came to like cherry coke a lot,
Read books and kept learning,
Walked to her work each day.



Eloped in December at nineteen years of age
With handsome Billy Moore,
Nine years older than she,
Held her hands over his ears to keep them warm,
As they drove the two hundred miles in an unheated
Ford to the Boise valley and his parents’ home,
Began being a homemaker.


Their first child died at birth,
She was close to death herself,
Never saw the baby,
Was not present at his funeral,family
Rallied back to life,
Always remembering him,
She walked on.


Farmed with her husband on rented land,
Made it in the hard years.
Made clothes,
Made bread,
Made soap,
Made do,
And bore children.



 In one twelve month periodwayne  Their nine year old son Wayne died of leukemia,
Her Mother died of cancer,
And she gave birth to a baby girl.
Trusting in the Lord,
Not giving in she walked on.





Started farming their own place the winter of forty-one,
In June of forty-two Bill died,
Leaving her with six children,
Crops to irrigate, cows to milk,
Chickens to feed,
And a baby on the way,
Her neighbors helped her through
That season and all survived.


That November she bore her ninth child,with baby
A beautiful baby boy,
When friends suggested that it was sad
To have a baby in such circumstances,
She replied, “Who knows but what he will
Bring me great happiness.”
She found in him great joy.




Sold the farm she could not keep,
Because a woman could not carry the mortgage,
So she moved her children to an acreage,
Grew gardens, milked cows, sold eggs,
Kept the books and worked at the welfare storehouse,
Cooked in the school lunch program,
Believing things would work out,
Sustained her family.

mature lavon


Now she took her children to church,
Understood the spirit of the gospel,
Taught them as she read the Book of Mormon,
Made suppertime an occasion
By her excellent cooking,
And lively conversation,
Maintained a loving, happy home.


Her children grew up and one by onegrown family
Left her home for college,
For Missions,
For the military,
For jobs,
For their own homes,
For their own lives,
Alone she wrote letters and walked on.


Fell down the basement stairs,
Broke her leg but crawled up
To phone for help,
Persevered and healed,
In the safety of the mall walked on.

with grandkids

Grandchildren came to visit,
She loved them, listened to them,
Encouraged them, laughed with them,
Read to them favorite stories,
Learned to knit and made them sweaters.
Believed always in their goodness.


Grew weaker in a frail body,
Couldn’t live alone anymore,
Lived with her children,
Then lived in a nursing home,
                                                   Still smiled with visitors,
                                                   Encouraged her care givers,
                                                   Made the best of every situation,
                                                   With a walker she walked on.


LaVon Lyons Moore truly experienced mortal life.lavon 85
She could smile and her eyes would twinkle,
Found joy in the small things of life,
Ripe peaches, canning grape juice,
Planted crops, clean faces and combed hair,
Scriptures, Sunday, good books, poetry,
Children’s play and accomplishments.
She walked in faith to the last moment.


lavon 1975Walking on before us she smoothed the way,
She loved deeply, sacrificed, and pioneered,
Beyond this mortal life,
She lives and watches for her posterity,
Expecting us to walk on!

Painting With Leaves








Sunday evening the grand children and I
Went for a walk in our woods,
The forest was quiet,
The pine needles deep and soft beneath our feet,
Some of the deciduous leaves had begun to
Turn colors and fall to the forest floor,
The girls kept giggling and dancing about
Like children having been let out of church,
I kept feeling Elena and then Isabel
Touch the back of my sweater,
I couldn’t see what was happening but
I knew they were putting something,
On my fuzzy sweater vest,

Finally at the house after a photo,
I was able to see their work,
My back was a beautiful leaf painting!

                                                                                 Cerita M. Hewett
                                                                                    Nov. 7, 2011

Captured by a Campfire

                                     Burning Log in Hot Fire and Flames

(for Sharon & Gordon)

                                          Everyone else went inside
                                          To shower, snack, and visit.
                                          I wanted to go too,
                                          But the dying coals of the fire
                                          Held me captive, motionless,
                                          Quietly staring into its depths,
                                          Watching embers glow,                                                 

                                          Flash, and die into white ash.
                                          Remembering, savoring, storing it up.
                                          Gordon called from the balcony,
                                        “Are you ok?”
                                        “Yes,” I replied and sat longer
                                        Drinking in the quiet,
                                        Inhaling the aroma of smoke and pines,
                                        Until there was no more warmth
                                        For my hands and face,
                                        No glow,
                                        Then at last I was released.

                                                                                         Cerita M. Hewett
                                                                                          February 2015


With school out,
We sat on the wooden back steps
Sucking out the sweet green middles of the deep blue grapes,
Spitting the seeds into the lawn. 

The warm September afternoon soaked into our lithe bodies.
We joked about the day,
Talked about the substitute teacher,
And discussed who was running for president.

I was at that moment thirteen years of age,
Physically mature,
Complete in my own mind,
All knowing.

You asked, “So, who would you vote for?”
Knowing you were listening, not judging.
I shared unabashedly, “I like Ike.
Since he really knows war,
He will work for peace.” 

Two women sharing grapes and the day,
Somehow I didn’t notice then that
You were thirty years older than I,
That we were mother and daughter.

                                                                                                Cerita M. Hewett


                 Autumn Lake Reflections A waterfront home in autmn, near Sandpoint, Idaho.

Sometimes when I am troubled
I wander through the photo albums of my mind
To places of peace and love.

I lie near the pine of our old backyard,
In the tall early morning grass,
Just after dew tears have dried,
 Watching mountains of marshmallow clouds drift by.

I sit on the deck of an Idaho cabin,
Where I gaze at magnificent pines,
And observe busy chipmunks,
As they open brown seeds for lunch 

I watch the flames of a campfire
Melt from dancing yellow and orange,
To a red, red glow, and
Slowly expire into flickering black embers and white ash.

I rock a baby,
Feel a soft cheek against my neck,
The pressure of dainty feet upon my leg,
A tiny hand curling round my little finger.

I perch in the sheltering rocks of a windy beach,
See the white caps forming at sea,
Watch Roger playing with the children on the shore,
Smell the salt and hear the gulls.

I gaze from a schoolroom window,
At the oaks and pecans of the woods,
Listening to the murmur of children,
Busy with reading, writing, and painting.

I stroll the temple grounds,
Pull grass spears from among the flowers beside the walk,
Sit looking up towards its towers,
Sense the trumpet’s soundless plea for peace 

Remembering through each scene,
Knowing how I have been understood and loved,
Feeling the Spirit wash my heart in a quiet hush,
Then, in the stillness, the calmness,
the silence, comes serenity.

                                                                   Cerita M. Hewett
                                                                   July 12, 2009
                                                                   (revised 2014)

Cobweb Sweeper (for Edward)

forest running                                    The runner who
                                    Sweeps the cobwebs,
                                    On the paths through the woods,
                                    Before the dawn comes,
                                    Is on vacation.

                                    So the feathery,
                                    Sticky lines,
                                    Hit my face as
                                    I walk through the daylight woods.

                                    I held a twiggy
                                    Branch aloft,
                                    In front of my face today,
                                    To clear them for myself.

                                    My how it changed
                                    My view of the woods.
                                    It was like looking,
                                    Through a cracked
                                    Window pane.

                                    Every vista fractured
                                    By scraggy lines.
                                    But then my face
                                    Was protected and free of webs.

                                     I will be glad when
                                    The dashing cobweb sweeper,
                                    Returns to the forest.

                                                               Cerita M. Hewett
                                                               July 2014
                                                               (revised October 2014)



Ecuador, Ethnic Latin Woman

                 Ocean, rivers, desert,
                       Verdant mountains, volcanic rock,
                                    Tropical jungle,
                  Whales – millipedes.
                           Humming birds – great parrots,
                  Changing surfaces – changing people.


                  Large cities – tiny villages,
                           Supermarkets – open markets,
                                    Stairwell shops – modern malls,
                  Sidewalk cafes – food courts,
                           Street venders – department stores
                  Flower gardens – dirt yards.


                  Painted and unpainted homes dot the land
                           Mansions, high-rise apartments,
                                    Cinderblock, adobe, cardboard dwellings and huts,
                  Painted gray and black by the earth,
                           Or by cheerful people
                  Green, pink, orange, or blue.


                  Cement highways – dirt streets – narrow pathways,
                           People riding in cars, airplanes, buses,
                                    Trains, vans, pickups,
                  Ships, boats, dugouts,
                           Or on burros and horses,
                  Some walking, walking, walking.


                  Agile young soccer players competing on dirt,
                           Cement, or sparse yellow grass surfaces,
                                    And on sandy beaches,
                  Professionals playing in giant
                           Manicured stadiums,
                 Cripples with canes, crutches, wheelchairs.


                  People spread across the land
                           Smiling young faces with sparkling white teeth,
                                    Sober, wrinkled, toothless, faces.
                  Crying babies, shouting venders, whispering breezes,
                           Brass bands – classical orchestras,


                  Traditions of home learning,
                           Training from the fathers and ancients,
                  Schools of private or public education.


                  Men, women, and children working the land,
                  Terraced corn, beans, and potato patches,
                                    Spacious rice paddies – Cane fields,
                  Banana plantations.


                  People filling shops and offices,
                           Wearing jeans, suits, or native dress.
                                    Living off the land,
                                             Living off the streets,
                  Clean and dirty.


                  Tourists looking on,
                           Old people looking back,
                                    Young people looking forward!


                  Ecuador, a land of contradictions,
                           Ecuador, a land in flux,
                                    A place to live, love, and serve.



                  Traveling we experienced something of this land’s
                           Ugliness and beauty,
                                    Sound and silence,
                  Perfume and odor.


                  Then we returned to the peace,
                           The studied formal gardens,
                                    The refuge of the temple grounds,
                  Here we found the same peace
                           That the people of this land find as
                                    They come one by one
                                             Family by family,
                   To worship in our Father’s house!

                                                            Cerita M. Hewett
                                                            August 16, 2009
                                                            (revised Oct. 2014)

Mailing Packages

                                         The neighbor’s lights are up,

                                         They are in the Christmas spirit!

                                          I can see their tree through the window,

                                          It shines out to encourage me.


                                           Our children are out of the dolls and play truck ages,

                                           They have marched past the name brand clothing stage,

                                            I will need to mail their packages,


                                           What will delight their hearts today?

                                            It’s hard to know.

                                            I want to please them,

                                            But really can’t be sure

                                            How to get that adult face

                                            To shine once again.


                                            Perhaps it is not possible now,

                                           Now that they know so much of the world,

                                           But I will try.

                                                                                                                        Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                                                        2002  (revised 2014)

Thanks and Gobblers


For butterfly wings and fluffy clouds,

                                    For sweet rose scent and tangy pickle juice,

                                                      For craggy rocks and soft warm sand,

                           For children’s hands.

                                    I thank thee Lord!

                                                                                    Cerita M. Hewett

                                                                                    (revised 2014)



 The great turkey gobbler makes a noise!

                           He gobbles at the girls.

                           He gobbles at the boys.


                           Though we run away from all that squabble,

                           We laugh until we nearly wobble,

                           Cause soon we’ll be the ones that gobbles!

                                                                                                                        Cerita M. Moore

                                                                                                                        About 1961