1930 :: Memories of Mother

The Rockdale Reporter and Messenger

(Rockdale, Tex.)

Vol. 58, No. 12, Ed. 1

Thursday, May 8, 1930 Page: 7 of 8

 

Over the Hill

The Rockdale Reporter and Messenger (Rockdale, Tex.)

Vol. 53, No. 8, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 16, 1925

 

 

In memory of Betty and Iola and Dorris

Psalm 102:18

Let this be written

for a future generation . . .

Alex Haley is often quoted as having said that when an old person dies, it is like a small library burning. 

The difference is, most libraries only have books for which there are duplicates in many other libraries. 


But when an old person dies, it is a tragic loss of the many and varied pages and chapters of the assorted books of that person's unique life . . . it is left to us, the living, to remember and record and memorialize their stories . . .

Remembering and honoring
the varied lives of . . .

BETTY NALLS
my neighbor and friend
21 January 1928 ~ 17 January 2018

IOLA AVRETT
my 1st cousin once removed
11 February 1921 ~ 20 January 2018

DORRIS HENRY
mother of my 2nd cousins
19 January 1926 ~ 20 January 2018

Let them not vanish

like ghosts of forgotten memories . . . 

The Memory becomes a Kaleidoscope

On Thanksgiving day 
the memory becomes 
a kaleidoscope, 
and every minute 
the scene changes.

You give 
to the kaleidoscope of memory 
a turn 
and there they are, 
natural as life, 
around the country hearth 
on a cold winter night.

I see that old Thanksgiving dinner.

Father at one end, 
mother at the other end, 
the children between . . .

Of the ten at that table, 
all are gone save two -- 
some in village churchyard, 
some in city cemetery -- 
but we shall sit with them yet 
at a brighter banquet.

Rev. T. De Witt Talmage. (1832-1902)

Rockdale Reporter. (Rockdale, Tex.), Vol. 10, No. 42, Ed. 1 Thursday, November 19, 1903 Page: 8 of 10

His memory a benediction

From the tombstone of Dudley Snyder . . . who was buried on this date in the year 1921 . . . 

His life was an inspiration,

His memory a benediction.

The above is an adaptation of the last lines in the following composition . . . 

He has achieved success

who has lived well,

laughed often,

and loved much;

who has enjoyed the trust

of pure women,

who has gained the respect
of intelligent men

and the love of little children;

who has filled his niche

and accomplished his task,

who has left the world

better than he found it,

whether by an improved poppy,

a perfect poem,

or a rescued soul;

who has never lacked

appreciation of Earth's beauty

or failed to express it;

who has always looked

for the best in others

and given them the best he had;

whose life was an inspiration;

whose memory a benediction.

Bessie Anderson Stanley

1879–1952

Men like my father cannot die

Men like my father cannot die.

They are with me still,
real in memory as they were in flesh,
loving and beloved forever.

How green was my valley then.

Philip Dunne (1908-1992), U.S. screenwriter.
The narrator (Irving Pichel),
How Green Was My Valley (1941).

Gone

The following poem was found in his typewriter on the morning of the 1940 death of the original cowboy poet, Lysius Gough . . .

The Old T-Anchor Ranch is gone, and with it the open range,
No more we'll ride the plains alone, there's been a mighty change.

No more we'll round the circle wide, in early Spring and Fall,
Or stamp T-Anchor on the hide and hear the yearlin's bawl.

No more we'll trail T-Anchor herds to Fort Reno and "Montan,"
or hear the drawling campfire words, nor wear the trail brown-tan.

We've seen cowboys in their prime, and the ranch in all its glory,
Now some have crossed the line and others bald and hoary.

May the T-Anchor Ranch in memory live through all the coming years,
And our deeds strong courage give to future youth and steers.

---

Reminiscing . . .

Many changes more have been,
in one life's fleeting span,
brought about by sturdy men,
who never failed to duty stand.

Historians, to thee this charge we give,
write for us three cherished words,
let them through future ages live,
cowboys, cutting horse, and herd. . . .

Judge Lysius Gough
29 July 1862 ~ 02 November 1940

cowboypoetry.com
findagrave.com
tshaonline.org

RIP Bob Wills 1905-1975

Deep within my heart lies a melody,
A song of old San Antone.
Where in dreams I live with a memory,
Beneath the stars all alone.

Bob Wills
06 March 6 1905 ~ 13 May 1975

He was a favorite of my Bennie's . . .

Old Pictures

Here's a little girl playin' dress up
Somewhere under all that lace
Standin' in her mama's high heeled shoes
With a lipstick covered face

And here's a little boy on a pony
He's a cowboy all the way
He used to pull my hair and make me mad
At the Saturday matinee
Who would've thought that I'd lose my heart
To the same little boy someday  

Lookin' through my old pictures, faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears, others make me laugh
Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside
Here's brother with his very first automobile
Thought he'd washed the paint away
He took a job that took him West
He's doing very well and we don't see much of brother these days  
Oh, and this is my favorite of my papa
He's dressed up in his Sunday suit
A wide brimmed hat, a watch on a chain
Well, I'm gonna tell you the truth
It's a picture of a downright handsome man
Caught in the prime of his youth  

  Lookin' through my old pictures,  faded photographs
Some of them bring me close to tears,  others make me laugh
Old memories seem to come alive
And open up the past again and let me dream inside
They open up the past again and let me dream inside  
Written
by
K.T. Oslin & Jerry Gillespie

If I Had Only Known

In loving memory
of
~ Bennie Everhart ~
20 March 1948 ~ 07 April 2010

If I had only known
It was the last walk in the rain
I'd keep you out for hours in the storm
I would hold your hand
Like a life line to my heart
Underneath the thunder we'd be warm
If I had only known
It was our last walk in the rain

If I had only known
I'd never hear your voice again
I'd memorize each thing you ever said
And on those lonely nights
I could think of them once more
Keep your words alive inside my head
If I had only known
I'd never hear your voice again

You were the treasure in my hand
You were the one who always stood beside me
So unaware I foolishly believed
That you would always be there
But then there came a day
And I turned my head and you slipped away

If I had only known
It was my last night by your side
I'd pray a miracle would stop the dawn
And when you'd smile at me
I would look into your eyes
And make sure you know my love
For you goes on and on
If I had only known
If I had only known
The love I would've shown
If I had only known

Written
by
Jana Stanfield & Craig Morris

Sung
by
Reba McEntire

Must we forever part?

The following was submitted by a family member for publication in the Rockdale Reporter in 1912 following the 10th of February death of my 2nd great-grandpa, William Paschal Henry (1836-1912) . . .


'Tis hard to break the tender cord,
When love has bound our hearts.
'Tis hard, so hard to speak the words
Must we forever part?
Dearest father we have laid thee
In the peaceful grave's embrace,
But thy memory will be cherished,
'Til we see they heavenly face.

We miss thee from our home, dear father,
We miss thee from thy place,
A shadow o'er our life is cast;
We miss the sunshine of thy face.

We miss thy kind and willing hand,
Thy fond and earnest care,
Our home is dark without thee;
Yes, we miss thee everywhere.

We would call not back the dear departed,
Anchored safe where storms are o'er
In the border land we left him,
Soon to meet and part no more.

Far beyond this world of changes,
Far beyond this world of care,
We shall find our missing loved one,
In our Father's mansion fair.

One by one earth's ties are broken,
As we see our love decay;
And the hopes so fondly cherished
Brighten but to pass away.

One by one our hopes grow brighter
As we near the shining shore,
For we know across the river
Wait the loved ones gone before.


Jesus while our hearts are bleeding
O'er the spirits that death has won,
We would at this meeting,
Calmly say, "Thy will be done."


Though cast down we're not forsaken,
Though afflicted not alone,
Thou didst give and thou has taken,
Blessed Lord, "Thy will be done."

Anonymous

How will we know it's us without our past?

Time that is gone

I am leaving behind me fifty years of memory.

Memory . . . Who shall say what is real and what is not? 

Can I believe my friends all gone when their voices are a glory in my ears? 

No. 

And I will stand to say no and no again, for they remain a living truth within my mind. 

There is no fence nor hedge around time that is gone. 

You can go back and have what you like of it . . . 

So I can close my eyes on my valley as it was . . . 

from Huw's opening monologue in the movie, How Green Was My Valley

Precious Memories

Precious mem'ries, unseen angels
Sent from somewhere to my soul
How they linger, ever near me
And the sacred past unfold.

Precious mem'ries, how they linger
How they ever flood my soul
In the stillness of the midnight
Precious, sacred scenes unfold.


Precious father, loving mother
Fly across the lonely years
And old home scenes of my childhood
In fond memory appear.


In the stillness of the midnight
Echoes from the past I hear
Old-time singing, gladness bringing
From that lovely land somewhere.


I remember mother praying
Father, too, on bended knee
Sun is sinking, shadows falling
But their pray'rs still follow me.


As I travel on life's pathway
Know not what the years may hold
As I ponder, hope grows fonder
Precious mem'ries flood my soul.


J.B.F. Wright (1923)

I Sure Miss You

If life could only bring again,

the days I took for granted when

To hear your voice was just a call away

Oh what I'd give for just some time,

to say the things that slipped my mind

There's so much now I'd really like to say


But I can never go back when

we did the things we did back then

I'll store those precious memories in my mind


I'll take what you've instilled in me;

I'll try to be all I can be

And walk the path that you have left behind.


I sure miss you;

life will never be the same with you not here

Each passing day has brought much pain

But with God's grace my strength remains

I sure miss you,

but Heaven's sweeter with you there.

The little things that seemed so small

are now gold in a memory vault

I cherish every one I have of you


Now I can see and recognize

the part you played to shape my life

I often see you in the things I do


In God's design and master plan

He saw the hurting hearts of man

As we would say goodbye to those so dear


So with our family and friends

we'll be together once again

We'll view all Heaven's splendor hand in hand.


I sure miss you;

life will never be the same with you not here

Each passing day has brought much pain

But with God's grace my strength remains

I sure miss you,

but Heaven's sweeter with you there.

Words and Music

by

Gerald Crabb

Today I visited yesterday . . .

Today I visited yesterday
And walked among the graves
Of family and friends from long ago
Whose memory had begun to fade.


  The graves were unattended
As were my thoughts of them
When a vision of the ages past
Brought back my sense of kin.

The vision showed the church lawn
On a crisp summer day
The table spread, the food prepared
And friends who would break bread.

  All my relatives were there
both young and old
Grandma and I walked hand and hand
Sharing stories never told.

We laughed and cried
And shared our thoughts
And I found the friend
I thought I'd lost.

As the sun began to fade . . .
The church bell rang out clear
Grandma and the others
slowly disappeared . . .

  Today I visited yesterday
And now the memory is strong
Of the family from which I came . . . and now belong . . .

by Pat Conner Rice

Ghosts of forgotten memories

Alex Haley is often quoted as having likened the death of an old person to the burning of a library . . . such a tragic loss of the many and varied pages and chapters of the assorted books of a unique life . . . and even more so if others have not listened to and remembered and memorialized the stories . . . then they just vanish . . . like ghosts of forgotten memories . . .

Remembering . . . Alexander Palmer Haley . . . born 11th August 1921 in Ithaca, New York . . . died 10th February 1992 in Seattle, Washington . . .

Carved in Stone

Lay the green sod o'er me
carve my name in stone
lay the green sod o'er me
the soldier has come home.

Barry Sadler (1940-1989)
American Singer, Soldier and Songwriter



Human memory
is a marvelous
but fallacious instrument.
The memories
which lie within us
are not carved in stone;
not only
do they tend to become erased
as the years go by,
but often they change,
or even increase
by incorporating extraneous features.

Primo Levi (1919-1987)
Italian Author, Writer and Chemist



Carve not upon a stone
when I am dead,
The praises which
remorseful mourners give;
To women's graves -
a tardy recompense,
But speak them while I live.

Elizabeth Akers Allen



Just because it's carved in stone
does NOT mean it's true!

One thought of me

The following verse is from a 19th century friendship album that belonged to Berta Mary Henry nee Sharp (1873-1955)

Dear Berta

Fond Memory, come and hover o'er
This album page of my fair friend,
Enrich her from thy precious store,
And recollections send.

If on this page she chance to gaze
In years to come -- where'er she be --
Tell her of earlier happy days,
And bring her back one thought of me.

Nina Bowling

The Shades of Evening

". . . Thus was his fair dawn of life, whilst his cloudless sun was nearing its meridian, in a moment veiled in the shades of death. . . . As the stars of heaven shine brighter at the close of day when the shades of evening gather over the earth, even so do his virtues beam with brighter lustre from the darkness of the silent tomb: and long shall it be ere there shall cease to be found in memory's waste, a green spot watered by the tears of affection for him who is gone."

Centennial History of Harrison, Maine: Containing the Centennial Celebration of 1905, and Historical and Biographical Matter :: By Alphonso Moulton, Howard L. Sampson, Granville Fernald :: Published by the authority of the town, 1909 :: Original from Harvard University :: Digitized Aug 21, 2006 :: 727 pages