Untitled Essay on Patience

by Audrey L. Barclay

"Patience is a virtue." Or so we were taught when I was a schoolgirl. It is a virtue with which few of us are born, but must be cultivated daily in order to develop it to best serve our needs. It is not acquired.

While rummaging in a seldom used closet a few days ago I came across several forgotten jigsaw puzzles. Most of them I'd worked more than once, but it had been a long time ago, so with my usual impulsiveness I selected the largest and gaudiest one in the group, set up a card table, and went to work. What matter that there were any number of more worthwhile things I might be doing with the precious time that's passing so rapidly?

I hurriedly stirred the bits of cardboard searching out the straight-edged outer pieces. In no time at all I had the outline in place except for two or three elusive pieces that would, no doubt, be easily found when I started the filling-in process. Then my trouble began.

I separated as many sections as I could find of a building depicted in the picture, and while I was at it I also set aside parts of the flower garden. I thought if I could fit those pieces of the puzzle I could work all around it, filling in from all sides. The afternoon passed, and all I had was perhaps a dozen pieces fitted. And I was as tired as if I'd worked all afternoon, besides being so frustrated I was tempted to chuck the whole thing in the trash can. However, I hadn't time to be bothered with it right then, so I left it to prepare dinner.

While waiting for my meal to cook I wandered back for one last look at the puzzle. Suddenly I was inserting pieces as fast as I could pick them up! They'd been there all the time, but in my impatience I'd been overlooking them. Suddenly it came to me that I'd had as good an illustration of the meaning of "patience" as one could hope to find. I'd had many similar experiences in solving all sorts of puzzles, in sewing, in writing, almost everything I've ever tried to do. When the going got rough and everything I tried to do went wrong, if I got away from it for awhile and put my mind on other things, I could return later to find the problem had all but solved itself.

Patience is not an attribute with which we are born. It often must be learned n the hard school of experience and must be cultivated daily if it is to be kept alive and growing.

**********

Editor's Note: In addition to patience, another quality that Grandma Audrey seems to have found virtuous is frugality. She loved to write, and she wrote on anything and everything. I thought you might enjoy seeing the pages on which she inscribed the above essay:

If you'll click on the images to enlarge them, you'll see the typewriting showing through from the other side of the paper. These were mimeographed sheets headed "General Information" and, judging by the text, had been prepared for distribution to teachers. You might also notice that before Grandma began writing her essay on the back sides of these pages, one corner of the top page had already been used for mathematical calculations.  

I wonder how many of her grandchildren have mastered both patience and frugality. Not I.

The Cake Snatcher

Remember when I told you Grandma Audrey wrote a lot of fact-based fiction? Today's story is a perfect example. In this one she changed the names of everyone but Robert Clary. The Markles were really the Barclays, Audrey and Erna, and the Markles' son Lynn was my father, Paul Linvel Barclay.

Here's the story:

The Cake Snatcher

by Audrey L. Barclay

You probably don't watch "Hogan's Heroes" on television for the same reason I do. It's an entertaining little comedy, and Hogan's great, but it has a special meaning for me because it features Robert Clary. He's one of the few celebrities I ever met.

We went to visit our son several years ago when he was assistant manager of the Statler Hotel in Detroit. Lynn told us immediately on our arrival that we were to spend the last night of our visit as guests of the hotel, where he had already reserved the "Presidential Suite" for us. He knew, with our limited travels, it would be an exciting experience for us, besides enabling us to get an early start on our return journey.

We visited with the family until late bedtime for the children that last evening, then Lynn returned to the hotel with us. There we found the welcome-mat spread. A lovely arrangement of flowers for "Mr. Markle's mother, courtesy of the hotel," and a big box of fancy candies "for Mom and Dad, from Lynn" awaited us in our suite. Then we went down to the supper-club for refreshments and the floor-show.

Our experience of social night-life was limited to what we had seen on television or in the movies, so we hardly knew what to expect, certainly not the homage we received from the moment we entered the room. Waiters came flocking from every direction to serve Mr. Markle and his guests, and the orchestra swung at once into Mr. Markle's favorite number in our honor. The scene had the unrealistic qualities of a fantastic dream or a bit of play-acting; I had to keep assuring myself it was neither, but stark reality.

We were escorted to a choice balcony table by some half a dozen waiters, each vying for the honor of serving our party. The head-waiter insisted he would take our order, but the others hovered near, making frequent suggestions. The order finally given, we sat back to enjoy the floor-show.

Just as Robert Clary began his performance the chef arrived from the kitchen to place his contribution before me, a lovely cake, nicely boxed for carrying. I was speechless, and oh! so self-conscious at being the center of so much attention. My son sat there grinning at me like the cat that ate the canary and having the time of his life.

The little Frenchman finished his act and started from the floor. Swerving, he darted up the steps to our table, snatched up the cake, tucked it under his arm and ran, with nearly every waiter in the place in hot pursuit. They overtook him, seized the box, and came marching back in a body, the head-waiter bearing it aloft as though it was a diadem on a silken pillow.

It was the grand finale of the show, of course, but fun, and that's why I like to watch "Hogan's Heroes," with Robert Clary. It brings back memories.

THE END

**********

I have one more piece of memorabilia related to the time my father spent in Detroit's hospitality industry. Ripped out of a magazine, it's a page bearing a Cranbrook House Motel ad that featured him. I'm not sure what year it was, but in the ad my dad was touting the benefits of individual room phones, so maybe that'll narrow it down for you. Sometime in the '50s, I think. (Click on the photo to enlarge the ad.)

Did Christmas Come Twice?

by Audrey Barclay

The approach of Christmas always turns back the pages of memory to the holiday that brought both laughter and tears. It still does, though it happened almost forty years ago.

I arose that Christmas Eve to face a day crowded with things to be done in preparation for the coming day. My parents were to drive the clumsy, big lumber truck in from their home some thirty miles away to share in the festivities. What they didn't know was that Etta, a sister in St. Louis, had written that she was coming also, with her three children, but requesting us to withhold the information from our parents. It would be fun to surprise them.

A younger sister, Velma, was staying with us during the holiday season while she was employed at a local variety store. Both Velma and my husband, Erna, must work that day, but there was to be no school, so the children were being allowed to sleep as late as they wished. Velma, Erna and I were taking advantage of the latter fact to enjoy a leisurely breakfast without the usual confusion of several children needing attention. We chuckled over the surprise in store for Mom and Dad when they saw Etta and her children; we discussed other pertinent matters that absorbed our attention so we failed to hear the noise of the heavy vehicle pulling into the driveway.

Then a fumbling noise was heard at the door. Wonderingly, because of the early hour, I started to rise from the table, but before I was on my feet the door opened and there came my mother, holding aloft a huge cake. She advanced  into the room, followed closely by Dad, who had both hands around an enormous box of Christmas goodies. After pausing only long enough to push the door shut with his foot, Dad followed after Mom, echoing her gleeful greeting, "Merry Christmas, everybody!" Both faces were bathed in broad smiles of happy anticipation.

I was ashamed of the idea that was chasing about in my mind. Could they have made such a horrifying mistake? Not MY mom and dad! I was stunned at the idea. Erna, Velma and I simply sat there exchanging questioning glances, each of us waiting for one of the others to tell the happy couple of their error.

Having deposited their burdens in the kitchen, they returned to the dining room where I was fumblingly trying to pour cups of coffee to warm them up after their long ride. Mom looked around expectantly and, seeing no signs of excited children, inquired, "Aren't the kiddies up yet?" She sounded disappointed, then surprised when I replied, "No, there isn't any school today." I couldn't bring myself yet to blurt out the awful truth.

At last it was time for Erna to leave, so he told them, rather timidly, to be sure, "This isn't Christmas Day. It isn't until tomorrow." Both Mom and Dad thought he was only teasing, and Dad, being quite a tease himself, decided he'd have a part in the fun. He began explaining that he'd tried to tell Mom she was mistaken in the date, but she wouldn't listen to him. Knowing our dad, we knew he'd never have made that cold drive had he really thought Mom was wrong. It was only when Erna put on his coat and cap and picked up his lunchbox that they really accepted the truth. Looks of horror, embarrassment, and disappointment replaced their happy smiles.

In his chagrin Dad announced they wouldn't be returning the next day, bringing remonstrances from all of us (by that time several of the children had been awakened by the sound of strange voices and were standing around sleepy eyed and wondering what the commotion was all about). When Erna finally told him to forget it, we wouldn't tell on him, and that Christmas only comes once a year, you know, Dad replied, "The heck it don't! It's come twice THIS year."

The rest of the story is anticlimactic I suppose, but the tale would be incomplete without it. Erna left from work to meet the afternoon train while Velma and I spent the time comparing notes. Seems we each had been in a near-hysterical state throughout the day, bursting into sudden spurts of laughter, followed by floods of tears as we pictured the faces of our parents and knew how embarrassing the incident must have been for them. We agreed we'd spare their feelings and not reveal the occurrence to our other guests, but Dad, being a good sport, couldn't resist the opportunity to let the others in on the secret.

Yes, they did return, bright and early, but in a somewhat subdued attitude from that of the previous morning. And it was, truly, a very MERRY CHRISTMAS!

The End

Audrey and Erna (on sofa) surrounded by family,
Christmas Day 1948.

When the Leaves Turn

by Audrey L. Barclay

Nature has provided the leaves with a calendar to tell them when to start changing from the faded, dusty green of their summer attire to their "Jacob's coat of many colors." It seems to happen almost overnight. Nowhere is the scene more glorious than right here in our Ozark hills, especially the one I see from my kitchen window.

A light frost only hastens the process, but a hard one brings a quick change to winter dress of drab browns for all except the evergreens dotting the landscape.

The tall hillside is a tangled mass of many shades, of many colors. Indian paint brush and some kinds of oaks burn like flames of fire, others of the oak family are of bronze or burnished brown. The scarlet of the sugar maples mingles with the bright yellow of soft maples and hickory-nut trees. Here and there a crimson vine of poison ivy twines its way up the trunk of a tree.

The fencerows are overgrown with drooping stalks of pokeberries, the raisin-purple fruit still clinging tenaciously to the parent plan, which is almost smothered by huge clumps of crimson sumac, with its orange-red berries. Not quite so plentiful are the lovely bittersweet shrubs, with their tiny, orange-tinged-with-red berries, and countless other colorful trees and vines of which I do not know the names.

A small lake at the foot of the hill reflects the picture, adding a background of blue sky where light popcorn clouds float lazily by.

Although many have tried, only that Master of all artists, God, has ever succeeded in producing such a scene of splendor.

Jason Rust, grandson of Audrey Barclay, shot this photo of

the Ozarks' autumn colors that Audrey described as "glorious."

Casper Hamilton

by Audrey L. Barclay

The dapper little man stepping briskly along, the soft April breeze ruffling his thinning black hair, was Casper Hamilton, head of the history department in a New York City school. He was planning to celebrate his fifty-second birthday by settling himself for the evening with the new novel he had tucked beneath his arm, a story of the Civil War. Such stories were a hobby with him, and he anticipated an enjoyable evening.

Casper lived alone in a modest two-room-and-kitchenette apartment in Manhattan, with neither wife nor television to interfere with his reading. He was a timid little man, so it was inevitable that he feel ill at ease and in the way on those rare occasions when he did join the few friends he had among his colleagues. This timidity and his slight stature--he was barely 5'7" tall and had never weighed more than 147 pounds, sopping wet--had earned for him the appellation "Mr. Milquetoast" among his students. Privately, of course.

Casper had been born in Reading, Pennsylvania, where his father worked for civil service in the State Department of Commerce. His mother taught kindergarten and was unable to hide her frustration when her frail child failed to behave with the maturity of her small pupils, almost from the day he could walk. As a result he came to rely almost wholly on his own resources for companionship.

The boy was a good student and graduated from Penn State at the age of twenty. He realized he must choose a vocation requiring little physical ability. Teaching seemed the logical choice, so, having majored in history, he went to Pittsburgh and secured a position teaching that subject in one of the high schools there.

The first rumblings of World War II were being heard then, and the young man kept an alert ear tuned to the progress of the European conflict. It was history in the making, and he was among the first to offer his services following Pearl Harbor. To his chagrin he was rejected because of faulty vision; the best he could do to show his patriotism was to serve as air-raid warden for the duration.

After twelve years with the Pittsburgh school, the little teacher went to New York. He'd had an attractive offer to teach history and economics in the system there, and he was ready for  change. It was a good move, resulting eventually in his present position with the large high school that had come to be a second home to him.

The 52 years sit lightly on the erect little shoulders as he hurries homeward, the bright black eyes looking neither to right or left. He whistles softly beneath his breath the strains of his favorite song, "Mine eyes have seen the glory-----."

**********

Editor's Note: Audrey's vivid descriptions in this story make it one of my favorite examples of her writing. I don't know if Casper Hamilton was a real person or a character born of Audrey's imagination, but she made him seem real to me. In fact, if I had to guess, I would speculate that the writing assignment that generated this story might have been to interview someone and then write a short biography based on those interview notes. Except I can't even imagine where Audrey would have met a timid little teacher who lived in Manhattan. Can any of you Barclays out there shed any light on this?

Jesus Is Always There

by Audrey Barclay

'Twas The Little Old Church in the Valley
Where I first learned to know about God.
I tho't we would never be parted,
That I'd always be very near God.

Then I went to The Church in the Wildwood,
And I cried that I'd left God behind,
But soon I knew Jesus was there, too.
I'd not left the Saviour behind.

Next I found I had gone to the mountain
To a Little White Church on the Hill,
And once the Saviour came with us
And we held a camp-meet by the mill.

As years passed away I found Jesus
Was always awaiting me there,
Whether big city church or wee chapel,
Jesus was always there!

September Eighteenth

By Audrey L. Barclay

The first contingent of draftees from Greene County were leaving that night, and thus began a series of events marking the date, September eighteenth, as a special one throughout my life. It was 1917, and we had only recently become involved in the war against Germany. The entire populace, it seemed, would be at the station to demonstrate their patriotism and bid the young men God speed. Learning the young Barclays next door were going to join the throng of patrioteers, I suggested we make it a threesome, since we all had to ride the same streetcar, anyway.

Knowing Mr. Barclay's love of pranks--especially one that would make my face turn red--I shouldn't have been so filled with confusion, when they called for me, to find his younger brother had been finagled into making the party a foursome. My first impulse was to say something had come up that had changed my plans, but quick thinking made me realize they would all see through the stupid alibi, which would certainly give Mr. Barclay something to chuckle over. I accepted the proffered arm and went marching off to the trolley line as if it were the most common thing in the world.

As the evening wore on, I kept telling myself I wouldn't go out with him again, even if I were asked. I had met Erna a few times, but there had never been any particular attraction between us, and I wasn't about to pursue the acquaintance. Oh no---? That's what I thought!!!

We were married the following summer, just a couple of kids; Erna was eighteen, I was seventeen. Then Fate played a prank, the age for registering for the draft was lowered to eighteen, and on September eighteenth Erna had to register. However, before he could be called up, the Armistice was signed, so we were spared that ordeal.

Time passed, and it was ten years and five babies later when the date again brought an event of extra special importance. Infant number six was expected early in November, I THOUGHT, when he suddenly announced his impending arrival--on September eighteenth, 1928. That was surprising enough, but completely flabbergasting when the attending physician announced he was not alone; number seven was also arriving. And so we became the proud parents of twin sons, Alan and Olan.

September eighteenth, 1942, has memories of mixed emotions. It was on that date that a brother of Erna's had died in a distant city, and the remains returned to our town for interment. Our home became the focus point of activities for the family. It was also the date our daughter, Martha, met the young man she was to marry within a few months.

The final episode, to date, was when Alan's little son, Jimmy, chose his father's and Uncle Olan's birthday to become a part of the family. Needless to say, I find myself wondering each year, as the date approaches, if it will bring other events of special significance.

The Spirit Letters - Part Three

Messages from Spiritland

by Audrey Smith Barclay

I didn't know I was supposed to have descended from a considerable line of royal ancestors until after I was a grandmother. I still find it difficult to accept, but that's what the "papers" say, said papers being two ancient school tablets I found at the bottom of my grandmother's old trunk when it came into my possession several years ago. It was all news to me!

Grandmother went to California when I was nine years old, remaining there until ten years later, but we had corresponded regularly. I still had vivid memories of the weeks I spent on the farm with her each summer; they were the happiest times of my childhood, in spite of her eccentricities. Fortunately, it wasn't until after her return that I became aware of her interest in supernatural things. The knowledge explained, in part, some of the things I've never understood. I knew, for instance, that she despised my grandfather, whom I can barely remember. She would go no nearer his grave than the roadway, even when I begged to visit it, myself. It was quite near and she'd walk with me to within sight of it, then I must go the rest of the way alone.

I hastened to visit her as soon as possible after Grandmother returned to the old home. It was then I felt the full impact of her belief in communicating with spirits. She spared me nothing, except the answer to my question about Grandfather and what he had done to earn her hatred. I didn't dare ask, although she regaled me with many instances of being heckled by his mischievous spirit, explaining with great gusto how she always outwitted him. It was my first experience with one who consorted with spirits, and I found it rather frightening, to say the least.

Grandmother soon let it be known that she was only stopping over at the farm for a short time, then she was going back to New York, where the family had lived until most of the five children were grown. She neglected to say, however, for what...or whom...she was sainting, and it wasn't until after reading the contents of the tablets years later that I was sure I had the answers to both that question and the one concerning Grandfather. At any rate, she continued waiting until nearly three years had passed, then she suddenly sickened and went to join her friends in the spirit world.

Many years later, I found what I now refer to as "The Letters." The closely written pages, in Grandmother's neat script, appear to be communication dictated to her by spirits of various people long dead. They unfold a most remarkable tale, unbelievable, really, although a cousin and I have verified a few of the statements. Whether or not I descend from royalty is a moot question...if so, I've surely descended a long way! Nevertheless, I thought there might be some among you who would find the story entertaining. If so, be my guest: (Note the dates.)

**********

Editor's Note: Okay, let's stop here for now. Judging from the lack of traffic on this site, not too many people are waiting with bated breath to find out more about the spirit letters. Nevertheless, Grandma Audrey did attach a typewritten transcript of the letters (part or all of them, I don't know which) to the above piece. I'll retype her transcript for posting here next weekend.

In the meantime, I'm curious: If you are related to Audrey, then you're also related to her grandmother Amy, who sincerely believed she could communicate with the dead. Reading Audrey's stories about Amy makes me wonder if there really is such a thing as a "sixth sense" and, if so, is it something that might be inherited? 

The subject intrigues me because I've actually had one profound (and as yet unexplained) experience with someone from "the other side"--my maternal grandmother, Lola. You can click here, if you wish, to read about that incident. Now I'd like to know if any of the rest of you have ever had a close encounter of the spiritual kind. Come on, now! Comment or email, but 'fess up if you have. I can't be the only one who's dying to know.

Amy Lucinda (Hagadorn) Smith

The Spirit Letters - Part Two

A Word from Audrey (Smith) Barclay

There are those who will, no doubt, most emphatically declare the letters I am about to share with you to be nothing more than the wanderings of a senile mind or an unusually vivid imagination. To be perfectly frank with you, in your place I'd feel exactly as  you do about it--skeptical, to say the least. On the other hand, there are many people who wholeheartedly believe in Spiritualism, and who cite many unusual experiences to justify their beliefs. I'm glad I don't believe it, because if I did, I'm sure I'd be just plain scared to death!

May I tell you a bit about my grandmother [Amy Lucinda Smith Hagadorn] before we read the letters?

My earliest recollection of her dates back to the days when, as a very small girl, I spent several weeks each summer visiting with her and my bachelor uncle on their Ozarks hill farm at the Crossroads.

In those days the house was a large, one-room log cabin with a loft, or attic, and a wide porch across the entire East side of the house. It was on this porch that most of Grandmother's waking hours were spent, when the weather permitted. I can see her now, in her low rocking-chair, a pan of potatoes (or peaches or apples) on her lap, her paring knife in her hand, and she, herself, sound asleep. Suddenly her head comes up with a jerk as she awakens, but before she has finished even one potato she is quite likely to be nodding again.

She was a little short, dumpy woman of Dutch ancestry--not at all a person to fear, if one could judge by appearances. But woe betide the individual who aroused her ire! Her temper was something to reckon with, and it was common knowledge that she feared neither man, beast, or the devil. Sometimes, because my uncle was a semi-invalid and not to be taken into consideration, someone would try to impose on her, but none ever tried it a second time.

I suppose I should have painted a picture of her better self first, but somehow, I must have gotten started all wrong. Actually, Grandmother was a gentle person, kind to those in need, and went for miles to care for the ill. She believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, and she expected others to follow the same rule. When they failed to do so, that was when she took matters into her own hands and endeavored to show them the error of their ways.

It was about the time I came along that my grandfather managed to get himself into disrepute with her. I've never known how their difference of opinion came about, but I do know that during the last few years of his life, they never lived together as man and wife.  He was a contractor, and his work kept him away from home for months at a time, but on the rare occasions when he did come for a few weeks, she always made him welcome--up to a point. Even after Grandmother passed away, when I was only two and a half years old, it remained a mystery to the family just why Grandmother had come to shut him out of her life so completely.

Grandmother went to California to live when I was nine, and it was while she was living there that the old house burned. Several years later, after I was married, in fact, my father decided to build a new house on the old home place in the hope that Grandmother would return and spend the remainder of her days there with him.

It was such a joyous time for me when, finally, I could take my baby daughter and visit the place--and people--I had longed for for so many years. At first it seemed Grandmother had hardly changed at all in the eleven years since I had last seen her. Gradually, however, she began to talk to me of things she had never mentioned when I was a child. Before my stay was up, I was almost afraid to go to bed at night. Then, too, the bitter way in which she talked about Grandfather was frightening, although she did not reveal the reason for her bitter hatred of him, even so many years after his death.

I soon discovered that Grandmother had no intention of staying long at the farm. Born and reared in New York State, she insisted she was going back there. Three years later, when she suddenly sickened and died, her trunks still remained packed as they had been when she returned from California. And still, no one knew for what she waited before continuing her interrupted journey to New York. She kept her own council, and she kept it well.

Dad and Uncle Arb continued to live together until Uncle Arb, too, passed away some twelve years later. All that time Grandmother's trunk remained a mystery, as Dad did not seem at all curious, and Uncle Arb, I suppose, wasn't interested. At any rate, I never quite had the courage to make any inquiry, or pry, until recently. The mystery surrounding so many things was finally solved--at least to my satisfaction. Buried deep within the trunk were two old-fashioned school tablets such as I used when I was a child. Page after page was filled with the letters I am about to share with you, written in Grandmother's beautiful script, and dictated (if you can believe what you're going to read) by the spirits of men long dead.

Shall we read?

**********

Editor's Note: Well, no, we won't read those letters just yet. They were not attached to this particular piece, so it seems Grandma Audrey left us with a cliffhanger this time.

As for the school tablets on which the letters were written, it's my understanding that several members of the family have seen those tablets, though no one among the folks I've spoken to has any knowledge of where they are today. As much as I'd love to see the originals, we do have a typed transcript of the spirit letters (or at least a part of them; I don't know for sure), and I'll post that in a couple of weeks.

The Spirit Letters - Part One

Editor's Note:  Grandma Audrey's own paternal grandmother, Amy (Hagadorn) Smith, was a spiritualist, a fact that Audrey apparently found fascinating. (I have to admit: so do I.) Audrey wrote at least three stories that referenced Amy's spiritualism. There's some duplication in the three pieces, but there are also enough differences that each story helps to flesh out the other ones, so that reading all three of them provides us with a clearer understanding of the facts. 

I don't know the chronology of the three similar pieces. I do know that two of them end abruptly, and one, the shortest, is the only one that has Amy's so-called spirit letters attached. My plan is to publish these writings in four parts, concluding with the spirit letters. 

Let's begin with a piece titled "Audrey's Book." If I have the entirety of it, it's slightly over four double-spaced, typewritten pages--a good first chapter, maybe the only one. This version is intriguing because it's a fictionalized account in which Audrey changed some--not all--of the people's names. Those of you who knew Audrey could figure this out on your own, but for those who aren't familiar with our family's history--and because Audrey uses real names in the pieces to be published later--here's the cast of characters in order of their appearance:

• Amy Smythe --  Amy Lucinda Hagadorn Smith, Audrey's grandmother
• Gracie -- Audrey herself
• Min -- Minnie Lee West Smith Brower, Audrey's mother
• Aaron -- Arba, Audrey's uncle
• Eric -- Ernest, Audrey's father
• Nell and Daisy -- the horses, most likely named Nell and Daisy in real life
• Pax -- Stotts City, Missouri, where Ernest and Minnie met. Amy and Samuel's big log cabin was built in a small community known as Crossroads, four miles west of Galena, Missouri, and "a 45-minute ride" by train from Stotts City. 
• Manuel -- Samuel S. Smith, Audrey's grandfather, Amy's husband
• Rev. Jackson -- Sorry, no idea about his real name.

Okay, let's get started:

**********

Audrey's Book

by Audrey L. Barclay

Amy Smythe waddled happily around the big log cabin putting hr house in order before time to meet the rain at the whistle-stop station three miles away. A small granddaughter, Gracie, was coming to spend the remaining three weeks of the summer before school started again. Amy hadn't seen Gracie since Gracie's mother had taken her and gone back to her parents nearly five years before. It was typical of Amy's character that her sympathies had been with the deserting daughter-in-law, and they had remained fast friends and corresponded regularly.

It had taken a bit of doing for Amy to persuade Min to put Gracie on the train alone for the 45-minute ride, but she had finally succeeded. The child was slowly recovering from several weeks of a low-grade fever, and Amy thought she needed the kind of care she could give her, and some good old country air. Amy was not a licensed physician, but she had come from a family of them, so she almost qualified. She did have a license to practice midwifery and was in great demand in the community for her services in that capacity.

Now Amy carried the last big stone crock of the still warm milk to the cool cellar and returned to comb her thin, white hair and change into a fresh calico dress. She called to Aaron, her son, to say it was time to hitch the team, Nell and Daisy, to the surrey. They wanted to be sure little Gracie wasn't left waiting alone on that godforsaken [station platform] in the middle of nowhere. It would be bad enough for her to accept the two people who were, literally, only names to her, although her mother had "faithfully" impressed on the childish mind the love and respect involved; that she must cherish Grandma Amy and Uncle Aaron. It was sad, but true, that Min had not done her duty as well in regard to the child's father, Eric. All Gracie knew of him was his name, that he and her mother had met when he had come to the small mining town of Pax with his father to build a schoolhouse, and that after four years of marriage they had separated. Never any explanation, but now Gracie was beginning to ask questions, questions that got only evasive answers. The small girl was intelligent enough to look forward to learning a few things from Amy.

It didn't take long for Gracie to become a member of the family. Amy talked to her as though she were an adult, about everything except those things that bothered her childish mind. They were adroitly evaded, while even more mysteries were added. For one thing, she learned Amy despised Manuel, her husband. She had borne him five children, yet the last few years had rejected him. She permitted him to stay in their home when his work made it possible, but would [no] longer be a wife to him. Gracie had but the vaguest memory of her grandfather, and when she learned he was buried but a few hundred yards from the house, she had a childish desire to visit the lonely grave. His had been the first and, for a long time, the only one in the acre of land donated for the purpose by a neighboring family.

Amy always took Gracie down the road within sight of the plot when she wanted to go, but would never go near it herself. There was never any explanation for her attitude, and it remained a mystery to Gracie nearly half a century. As time passed, other mysteries were added, to which there would be no answers. However, time has a way of eventually clarifying most of them.

Once having successfully made the journey alone to visit Amy, and enjoying it so much, Gracie was permitted to spend several weeks of each of the two following summers at the farm. They were but a repetition of the first, but Gracie loved the time spent there. Uncle Aaron always let her ride the mare, Daisy, when he took them to the spring for water. Nell was a bit too skittish to be safe for the child. She walked through the woods and fields with Amy when she went searching for herbs for her home brewed medications.

Strangely enough, Gracie was bewildered by Amy's attitude concerning religious matters. Very little was said, really, except that Amy always spoke rather disparagingly of the only minister who lived in the vicinity. She showed such a charitable spirit to everyone, was so jolly and kind, really fun to be with, yet so adamant in some of her ideas, i.e., Grandpa and Rev. Jackson.

Gracie always liked to relate the story of how Rev. Jackson arrived at the farm on horseback one day just in time to share the noon meal. Among other things, Amy had prepared chicken and dumplings. The good man served himself generously of everything offered him, except the chicken. He took a second helping of the dumplings and gravy. After he went on his way, Amy broke into peals of laughter. To Aaron's question, she replied, "Pooor old sinner! He wouldn't eat the devil, but he'd drink his broth." Her little brown eyes literally sparkled with merriment.

It was just as well that Amy never mentioned her religious beliefs to her small granddaughter during the early years. There were, apparently, no other believers in anything occult in the community. Amy had become involved while still living in New York, where she and Manuel had lived until the children were grown, then they had started wandering from state to state in search of work.

Eventually, the eldest son, Oran, had married and went to California. By the autumn of 1909 he persuaded Amy and Aaron to leave the farm and make their home with him. That ended Gracie's summer visits to the farm, though she kept in close contact with her grandmother. Within a few years she learned the beloved old log house had burned down.

Shortly after Gracie was married in 1918, she learned from Amy that her father, Eric, had settled down from his wandering and built a small house for himself on the old farm. He had never remarried, but they had never met in all those years.

Then, in 1920, to Gracie's joy, she learned that Amy and Aaron were "coming home." She could hardly wait to take her infant daughter and visit her dear ones. She didn't know quite what to expect of Eric, but he readily accepted the role of father and grandfather. Then strange things began to happen.

Gracie learned things she had never suspected of her grandmother. All Amy could talk of was her experiences with those in the spirit world. It was frightening to one who had no knowledge of such things other than occasional references in something she was reading. The photos of herself that Amy exhibited were spooky enough to be frightening. Each one was surrounded by dim faces of people long dead. One such face had been completely obliterated with a pencil. Amy said it had been a photo of Manuel and she didn't want a picture of him around! No, she still wouldn't go near the rapidly filling cemetery.

It was evident that Amy was in no way senile, in spite of her 80 years. She was as mentally alert as anyone. She had simply become a devout advocate of spiritualism.

Still Gracie learned nothing to help solve the mysteries that so intrigued her, but another was added.

Amy stayed at the farm until 1924, never unpacking the huge trunk she had brought from California. She said she didn't want to have to pack it again when she "went to New York." She never revealed why she was going, nor for what she was waiting. She had no known living relatives there, and if she had communicated with anyone back there, no one in the family knew of it, but she seemed determined to go.

Then, in early Spring of 1924, Amy suddenly sickened and was gone to join her friends in Spiritland within three short days. Aaron and Eric, as a matter of course, had her remains interred beside their father, the first time she had been inside the little cemetery. Aaron and Eric continued living in the house until Eric eventually found himself alone. He had inherited the farm and stayed there until he, too, was stricken in 1951 and the house and all its contents came into the possession of Gracie. She had waited a long time, but now she was to learn a few answers and in the strangest way possible. Amazingly, Amy's sons had never bothered, in the 27 years since her death, to open the trunk.

I Walk Alone

by Audrey L. Barclay

I walk alone,
No mortal man can share my inmost tho'ts,
Nor any of my burdens bear.
My sorrows, illnesses, my fears,
My want for food, my loneliness, my tears,
Are mine, alone. But wait!
I'm not alone,
For every weary mile
God walks beside me all the while.
I DO NOT WALK ALONE!

About Cemeteries

by Audrey Barclay

I like to visit cemeteries, particularly old ones. The older they are, the more fascinating I find them. The inscriptions on the ancient gravestones intrigue me, as do some of the names I've found. To me such places are of great historical interest. I can spend hours letting my mind's eye travel backward, trying to visualize an individual to fit the name and the era. I don't believe I am any more morbid than most people just because I find such peaceful places interesting.

A few years ago my husband and I toured the eastern states and visited the graves of many of our famous people. We never failed to find others of special interest, for one reason or another. One that especially intrigued me was found in a small churchyard cemetery in Williamsburg, Virginia. I was first attracted by the apparent age of the monument. On inspection I discovered the date to be in the late 1770s, but I was so impressed with the inscription that I forgot to copy the vital statistics. Quite legibly inscribed were these words:

"Remember, friend, as you pass by,

As you are now, so once was I.

As I am now, you soon will be,

Prepare thyself to follow me."

I have since found out the inscription was not new, but, nevertheless, there is much truth to it and I liked it!

I suppose my interest in burial places was largely due to my having lived near such places during most of my childhood. Not large cemeteries; on the contrary. The first one was that of a tiny premature infant, not large enough to justify a regulation burial, but large enough that the young parents were impelled to give it a decent burial at the corner of their backyard garden. I was but four years old when we moved next door. I soon discovered the little mound and was told it was the grave of a baby. I couldn't imagine a baby so tiny, as kids my age didn't know about "preemies" in those days. How often I wished we had moved there sooner so I could have seen the baby! As it was, I made it my special project to see that flowers were added to the other ornaments--shells and pretty colored glass--all during clover blossom time for the five years we lived there.

The next place I remember was the grave of my paternal grandfather who had lived in another county. The man who lived on the adjoining farm had recently donated an acre of land for a community cemetery when my grandfather suffered a heart attack and was the first to be placed there. It was but a short time until Mr. Rowland, who had donated the land, became the second occupant. A pen of split rails was erected around the plot to protect them from being trampled by animals.

I went to spend a few weeks with my grandmother the summer I was eight years old, and my day was not complete if I failed to take my twilight walk to stand atop the rails beside grandpa's grave and remember him. I felt no sense of sadness, and I still don't, when I visit that tranquil, well-maintained place, as I did only a month ago. Needless to say, the seventy years since my grandfather was laid there has eliminated the rails, and many families are represented there.

In 1912 we rented a farm and moved to it. Within sight of the house--only a few hundred feet, in fact--the owners had set aside a small plot for a family cemetery years before. It contained the graves of probably eighteen or twenty members of the family, a few of whom I could remember.

There have been others, but not of such special interest, except for the latest one. In 1960 my husband and I bought a new home in a new addition of homes. After moving, we discovered an ancient cemetery at the end of the block. It was sadly neglected and overgrown with weeds and brush. We were told it was a slave cemetery, but I was never able to verify that fact. Shortly after we moved there a greedy contractor decided to confiscate it and erect another home on the land. I don't know how he planned to obtain legal title to it. When he moved in and started stacking up the modest gravestones, the nearby citizens discovered what was happening and objected violently. It was not in time to prevent much desecration, but did stop it from being completely destroyed. The stones were left in a pile, where they are to this day.

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Editor's note:  In the above essay Audrey mentioned that it had been seventy years since her paternal grandfather was laid to rest. Her paternal grandfather was Samuel S. Smith, who died August 6, 1903; therefore, Grandma Audrey would have written this piece about 1973. 

Now, about that graveyard where Sam Smith was buried: I've searched online for it for years with no luck at all. Today, after retyping Grandma's "About Cemeteries" for posting here, curiosity took hold of me once again. Armed with one new piece of information (the name "Rowland"), I did another Google search. Here's what I found:

It's hard to read the inscriptions, but this is the gravestone of Samuel and Amy Smith. Since Amy is buried here, too, this obviously isn't the original gravestone that eight-year-old Audrey stood "atop the rails" to see, but we can assume she stood right at this spot many times in later years, after Amy's death in 1923. 

The name of the place where Sam and Amy are buried is Nolan Cemetery, located in Crossroads, Stone County, Missouri. Their son (and Audrey's father), Ernest Ray Smith, is buried there, too, as are his brothers, Arba, Omar, and Samuel Junior, as well as Omar's wife, Annie, and Samuel Junior's wife, Frances (herself a Rowland). If you want to view their gravestones, find their names on this list and click on them. Further substantiating Audrey's essay, I found four people with the surname Rowlands buried at Nolan Cemetery, including one Jasper Rowlands, who passed away only three years after Samuel Smith. 

Based on what seems to be a fairly recent photo, Nolan cemetery is still well maintained:

I can't say enough good things about the  Find A Grave website that helped me on today's search and on so many others in the past. The information I found there today is available only because a volunteer named Maria was kind enough to post it on the Find A Grave site just two short months ago. Thank you, Maria!

If any of you readers are close enough--and curious enough--to check out Nolan Cemetery in person, click here to find Crossroads, Missouri (about 145 miles northeast of Springfield) or, better yet, click here for a map to the cemetery, complete with GPS coordinates. And, if you actually do go visit the graves of Sam, Amy, and their sons, as Grandma Audrey liked to do, please write and tell us about your experience there.

Two Pals on a Hilltop

by Audrey Smith Barclay

The daily trek through the woods to the high, bare pinnacle of rock overlooking the valley was the highlight of the day for nine-year-old Mike and Butch. The two had been inseparable companions ever since the huge, brown-and-white Collie had appeared at the Andersons' back door one rainy October night two years earlier, shivering with cold and half starved. He was little more than a half-grown puppy, but even then his enormous paws gave evidence of his size when he reached maturity.

Boy and dog grew together, each idolizing the other. Mike was an only child so, to him, the big dog had taken the place of another human being; he took him everywhere he went, confided all his secrets--in short, Butch almost assumed the role of Father Confessor. He was always waiting to escort Mike home from school, waiting with teeth and tongue bared in happy anticipation. The short side trip to "their" rock always made the journey home something to look forward to.

Tousle-haired Mike knew, aside from the beauty of the scene spread below them, there were all sorts of interesting things for a little boy and his dog to see. Sometimes a toad, disturbed from its reverie, hopped across the path before them; often a lizard or a terrapin, perhaps a snake, would be sunning itself on the warm rock.

There was one never-to-be-forgotten day they found the odd-looking snake stretched across the path. When gingerly attacked by Butch in an effort to frighten it away, the odd creature began to shrink in length while at the same time it grew broader and flatter. Mike and Butch watched it, bug-eyed, then backed away and left that one in full possession of their hilltop. They never saw the strange snake again.

The view from the big rock never failed to fascinate Mike. He spent hours lying spread-eagled, chin on folded arms, or sitting cross-legged, with an arm around his beloved pal, gazing across the valley. A highway wound in and out between the few farmhouses and fields and made its way to the hill on the opposite side, where it disappeared among the trees. The dreamy-eyed Mike looked after the few scattered cars as they sped along, wondering what was behind the horizon. Then, Butch, waiting patiently, would gaze wistfully up at the face of his little master as if he were saying, "Come on, Mike, please! Let's go see what's over there." And Mike always answered, "We will, Butch, some day we will!"

The Ultimatum

by Audrey L. Barclay

Bill Glover came leaping down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time until he looked up and saw his mother watching him, a speculative gleam in her eye. With only one more bounce to reach bottom, he stopped, laid the box of candy he carried on the newel post, and carefully readjusted his tie before sedately taking the remaining two steps.

He knew from her expression that his mother had something on her mind, but was hardly prepared for what was to follow. Finally, in sternest don't-you-lie-to-me tone of voice, Mrs. Glover asked her handsome, dark-haired son, "Where are you going all dressed up, Bill?"

Though it was but the middle of the week, Bill was dressed in his Sunday best for his date with the recently rediscovered playmate of his toddler days, Velma Denny. He knew his mother disapproved of Velma--she'd already expressed her disapproval as soon as she had learned Bill was seeing her. Nevertheless, he told her, "I'm going to see Velma."

Letting the paper she'd been reading fall to the floor beside her, she asked, "What, again?"

Considering a moment, Bill replied, "Yes, I am."

The words were spoken calmly, but inside the young man's heart was suddenly pounding wildly. The time had come, he knew, to declare his independence.

"Don't do it, Bill ... "

Bill interrupted, "And why not, may I ask?"

He had tried to be patient and respectful, but Mrs. Glover was beyond being reasonable. Her temper flared and she fairly shouted, "Because you know I don't like her!"

Bill countered with a flippant "So what?"

The angry woman seemed to have forgotten that her son was no longer a little boy; he was a man, with all the rights and privileges thereof. She knew she could no longer dominate him, yet she had to try once more. She began to sputter, "Bill Glover, don't you speak to me like that!"

Bill asked, "Mom, why don't you like Velma?"

The spiteful reply shocked him. "Because she's not good enough for you, that's why!"

"And I say she is." Bill remembered when once the two families had been next-door neighbors. He vaguely remembered how he had helped his tiny playmate learn to walk, helping her to hr feet when she lost her balance and fell, wiping dirt and ears from her baby cheeks. Then his father, an insurance salesman, had been promoted to a higher position in the company and Mrs. Glover had insisted they move to a location more in keeping with their new prestige. By stretching mightily to hang onto the higher rung in the ladder of success they had grown away from the old friends.

After a moment of speculation, Bill told his mother, "I happen to think she is. She's a lovely person."

Her voice rising another octave in her fury, the angry woman shouted, "She is not, and you're not to see her anymore!"

"If you'd only tell me why not ... " began Bill.

The only answer he got was a repetition of the statement that Velma wasn't good enough for him, to which Bill replied, "She is, and I'm going to marry her, if she'll have me."

Brushing his dark hair back from his smoky blue eyes now gleaming with bitterness in his pale face, Bill picked up the box of chocolates from the newel post and strode toward the door. He wanted only to put an end to the ugly scene.

Mrs. Glover, seeing her son about to shed his shackles, once more screamed to his departing back, "Don't you argue with me! I'm your mother."

Reaching the door, Bill turned the knob, then, speaking over his shoulder, he said, "I'm a man now, Mother, and old enough to make my own decisions."

Then, seeing Bill step through the open door, she issued her ultimatum: "If you go to see that girl again, don't bother coming back to this house."

Bill looked back at his mother for a long moment, unable to believe he'd heard the words she'd spoken. Then, raising his dark head high, he said, "Okay. If that's the way you want it. I'm sorry you feel as you do. I'll send for my things." He closed the door softly behind him and never knew about the bitter tears that drenched the cheeks of his heartbroken mother as she crumpled to the floor, as yet too proud to acknowledge her mistake.

Our Doctor, Our Friend

by Audrey Barclay

Dr. Arthur Knabb is one of the noblest men I have ever met and one who has spent all of his adult life serving humanity right here in our own city. The only time he wasn't available was during World War I when he was serving his country overseas.

All too often we fail to express our appreciation for such services until it is too late -- then we eulogize them to the skies. I'd like to pay my respects publicly, while he is yet around to receive them. I'm sure there are many who will join me in this tribute.

I doubt if there are many physicians who can equal, much less surpass, the record Dr. Knabb holds in our family. He has, since I first met him in the home of  relative in 1916, attended five generations of us. I had hoped, when our eldest granddaughter came for a visit a few years ago, that her infant son would be "ripe" for a routine shot of some sort thus making a sixth generation. However, he'd had his quota so it was not to be.

Dr. Arthur was attending my grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Z.T. West, when my family came to Springfield. So my parents, Mr. and Mrs. H. H. Brower, automatically adopted him as their physician. It was not until he returned from the service, in 1919, barely in time to attend me when the first of our nine children arrived, that I, too, became a regular patient -- and I do mean "regular." He attended me at the birth of seven of our nine children -- including a pair of twin boys. We missed connections, timewise, for the other two. After all, he did have a FEW other patients.

Our children grew up idolizing our Dr. Arthur, and on an occasion or two, when it was necessary to call on another doctor for a small emergency, it was somewhat embarrassing. Such as the time, for instance, when one of the boys had a badly infected "boil" on his arm, and his daddy took him to another doctor. After a quick look, the doctor picked up a small instrument, turned to the child and announced, "That's got to be lanced." To the father's consternation, young nine-year-old Paul backed off and said: "Oh, no you don't! Dr. Arthur can, but you can't."

Our children, of course, made the fourth generation, and when they were grown and starting families of their own, they, too, relied on the faithful doctor until he had delivered several of the fifth generation. Then, time and circumstances (mostly when they began to scatter during World War II) broke the chain so far as our children were concerned, although they still love and respect him.

I could write a book about the experiences we shared, some amusing, others heartbreaking. Of the former, one that stands out most vividly in my mind is the time I called the doctor to our home because of the illness of one of the other children and asked him to examine another of the boys, who had a bad speech impediment -- when he spoke at all, which was not often. We were quite distressed, thinking the child was tongue-tied, and that he must go through life with the problem. Then, I read somewhere that the condition could be corrected, so I thought it a good time to ask advice on the matter. Dr. Arthur carefully examined the child, asking a few pertinent questions, then turned to me with a sly grin and said, "No, he's not tongue-tied. His tongue is as loose as a woman's." He ducked away in an exaggerated way as if he expected me to start swinging. His wonderful sense of humor is not the least of his qualities. He was filled with compassion and pity and never too busy to offer them when the occasion called for it, nor to offer a prayer beside the bedside of a dying man.

Some of our experiences are too heartbreaking to dwell on, but some of the lesser ones I can now recall with a sense of amazement. I remember when the twins were about six months old and they, (Nos. 6 and 7), together with the son just older, got whooping cough. Two weeks later the entire seven of them also contracted measles! Dr. Arthur came every day for two weeks or more and gave shots to the three babies to avoid the possibility of pneumonia. We didn't have all the "miracle" drugs then that are now so common.

A few years later, after the last of our nine was two or three years old, (I suppose the Barclays must have started this population explosion about which there is so much discussion now), the whole tribe -- with the exception of the middle child -- came down with the mumps. Talk about a SWELL time! Fortunately, there were no ill after-effects, and we can laugh about it now!

The story would not be complete without a brief resume of the other side of the picture.

As everyone knows, the Knabbs were a family of doctors. I claim the honor of having been attended, at various times, by three generations of them. It began shortly after my marriage in 1918, during the epidemic of influenza that was then sweeping the continent. It was necessary that I call a doctor, and, since Dr. Arthur was in service, his father, Dr. Enoch Knabb, was called to attend me, making the first generation of them to serve me. Then, [when] Dr. Arthur suffered a heart attack a few years ago and was out of service for a time, I found it necessary to consult a physician on a serious matter so, of course, I went to his son, Dr. Kenneth, who has attended me ever since, making three generations of the family to have been my personal physician -- and friend, I trust.

Now it seems but right and proper that I pay my tribute to a real gentleman:  Thank you, and God bless you, Dr. Arthur Knabb, for your kindness, courtesy and great Christian heart. I wish there were more like you!

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Editor's Note: The above article is one that Grandma did get published. Click on the image below to see how her words looked in newsprint.

Notes About Childhood Events

Editor's Note No. 1:
Yesterday, after I finished transcribing Grandma Audrey's essay about the term "Senior Citizen," I turned the stapled pages over and found the following notes she'd written on the back of the last page. There was a list included in those notes, and many of the items on it had been crossed out. 

Not to get too technical, but the blog template I'm using for Audrey's Ambition doesn't accept the standard html code that would let me strike through the same words Grandma (I assume) did, so I've compensated for that by making those words red. 

Anyway, here's what she wrote:

**************************************************

by Audrey Barclay

I lay awake a few nights ago recalling, in my mind's eye, other mem other events of my life in Stotts City, many of which I hadn't tho't [about] for years. Among them were these: Burning baby, funeral flowers, music lessons, scholarship, colt, cleaning cisterns, miner and the measles, country school. Walking typhoid -- 1st quilt top. Halley's Comet, inferiority complex -- Denver, Chester -- Halloween -- Who's what, and why in Mo. -- church activities, political -- schoolteachers. WW1 -- R.R. strike. WW2 -- dolls -- Hallowe'en in S. City. Grandma's knitting, caskets & wagon wheels -- strawberry crates. Writing -- Plays & other programs. K.K.s in 1920s -- Lillard fire -- Cherry St. farm. Division St. home. Mrs. Sears.

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Editor's Note No. 2:
I wonder if Grandma crossed off those topics after she wrote about them. If so, I wonder what happened to those stories. The topics intrigued me, so, in the absence of Grandma's version of events, I went looking to see what I could find on the Internet:

• Click here, then scroll down the page to the "History" section and read about Stotts City, Missouri, where Grandma Audrey grew up.
• It's probably not the exact "walking typhoid" story Grandma would have told, but Typhoid Mary was big news in 1908 when Grandma was a girl. Click here to find out more about Mary Mallon.
• Halley's Comet made a rare appearance in 1910. Click here to learn why Grandma might have thought this would make a good story.
• I Googled "wwi stotts city missouri" and was rewarded with a fascinating article about a World War I medal winner who lived in Stotts City at the same time Grandma did. His name was Charles D. Barger. Click here to read about him.

Okay, folks, that ought to keep you busy for a while.

From the National Federation of Guilt Dispensation, A. Barclay, Chairperson

Untitled Essay

by Audrey Barclay

Senior Citizens. I don't think I care much for the appellation, even tho' I fall in that category myself. It's only a sop to ease guilty consciences of those who claim it is meant to add more dignity to those who have grown old, but to whom aged parents--perhaps--or others have become a drag on their own activities, a ball-and-chain.

Naturally, age has a way of slowing down physical activities, but age alone does not dim the mind; often mental faculties become sharper with age if not affected by disease. And who is to say exactly when an individual becomes a "Senior Citizen"? Is it when he becomes eligible for retirement for his work, a specific age, but continues to work for pay, or the lady who becomes widowed a few years before she is old enough for Social Security or a widow's pension based on her husband's retirement plan? Just when?

I've known many who, age-wise, have many years to go before retirement, yet their actions would indicate they must be eighty if they're a day. I also know any number of people who have lived long beyond the Biblical three-score years and ten who are as active and alert as anyone. And intriguing company for the stories of the past they sometimes relate. I'm thinking now of a pair of sisters whom I shall call Julia and Donna. Both are in their eighties, Donna being eighty-eight. They are the darlings of our church. Donna has had to yield largely to illness, altho' she does get out on special occasions, and frequently calls some of us just to visit via telephone. Julia is spry as the proverbial cricket and full of fun and good humor. She seldom misses being in her place in church on Sunday. It's true they had a heritage of longevity. Their mother celebrated her 109th birthday. She was 102 when she walked down the aisle to present herself for membership in our church after moving into our community.

Only a month ago a man I've known nearly 60 years suffered a broken leg, developed pneumonia, and died. He was a physician and had continued practicing until 6 mos. previously. He was 85 years old. A Senior Citizen? You bet! But not in the sense in which the designation is generally used.

Last night a long-time friend called me for some assistance. She is nearing 76, but still very active in her church. She is in the process of preparing a program for a special service and, knowing my interest in old songs, she tho't I might help her with one she wished to use in her program. (Fortunately, I could.)

From my own observation I'd say there are about as many aches and pains attacking the younger generations as we oldsters have to contend with, and they groan just as loudly and long. I contend a pain is a pain, whomever--and wherever--it hurts, so why get all up-tight if an old person complains?

Yes, I'm definitely opposed to being categorized as a "Senior Citizen," when I'm just a lonely old woman who sometimes yearns for an evening--or afternoon--of attention--well, entertainment, if you will--from someone of my many offspring. I enjoy games as much as the next fellow, I enjoy matching wits with younger people, but do I ever get the chance?

They talk about evenings of games with friends, but when I'm invited into one of the homes simply because it's time to fulfill a parental obligation--huh uh. I'm made to realize I'm only that ball-and-chain, to be cast aside at the earliest possible moment. I suppose that's why it gags me to be called a "Senior Citizen." Why not just stick to the old way and call us "old people"?

The various clubs that have been formed for our benefit are only to keep us out of the way of younger people, like quieting an infant with a rattle or a teething ring. It eases consciences and makes those promoting the project feel very proud of their strategy. But how many are there who really reap any benefits from such clubs? There are far more who, like myself, are unable to participate in such activities. Transportation is my big problem, as I'm sure it must be of others. I couldn't support a car on my meager income, nor can I afford taxi fare. And it's too far to walk!

No doubt I'd enjoy a session with one of the club groups now and then, but there are other activities I'd like to attend, if only someone cared enough to accompany me two or three evenings a year. There are concerts and plays, but I dare not go out alone at night.

The only recreation I have is TV, and I never turn that on during the day. I sit alone in the evenings with one eye on the set and play solitaire until I'm bored stiff. I like to read, but visual problems prevent much of that.

Senior Citizens? Bah! Sour grapes? Perhaps. But people, a small amount of attention--and please, for love's sweet sake rather than because it's a duty--might someday pay big dividends when you become an OLD man or woman yourself. As you surely will, if you live long enough.

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Editor's Note: Please know that I meant no disrespect when I titled this post. It's just that all of Grandma Audrey's writings we've read up until now (with the exception of "The Doll Story") have shown the lighter, happier side of her personality. Not to discount Grandma's complaints in this essay (she made some good points), but the peevishness of it just tickles me. I realize I was only 16 the last time I saw her, but it feels so darn good to finally, finally read something she wrote that reflects a different side of her personality I remember. Grandma was a real person, with real feelings, and, as I recall, she didn't hesitate to share them. If this is a place where we're all going to get to know her better through her own words, let's appreciate her for who she really was--warts and all.

I also think Grandma's sense of humor was probably sharp enough that she could take a joke, so unless you tell me I'm wrong about that (and maybe even if you do), I'll keep that smart-alecky title and up the ante a little bit: Click here to listen to the song that began to play in the back of my mind about midway through this essay.

And, yes--before you feel the need to point it out to me--I know:  I'm already 70, and I might one day eat these words. 

Doll Story

by Audrey Barclay

When I was seven years old, I was given a doll for Christmas by my favorite uncle and aunt.

It was a beautiful doll, with long, golden curls, and blue eyes that closed in sleep when I held her in my arms like a real baby.

She was much the finest doll I had ever owned--so fine in fact, that Mother only permitted me to play with her on very rare occasions. In between times she hung, like a picture, from a nail in the wall, held up by a ribbon tied around her middle.

One day, as I was enjoying the privilege of holding her in my arms, my younger sister, aged two and a half, set up a howl to play with my doll, and went into such a fit of temper that Mother reluctantly gave in, and said she might hold it awhile. Being so angry, her small hands had no sooner closed on the doll than it went sailing across the room, to land with a sickening thud against the wall. The beautiful head fell in pieces on the floor.

Had it been an accident I think I might have forgotten, in time. As it is, even though my sister and I are grandmothers now, and love each other dearly, I still find it hard to recall that incident without a deep feeling of bitterness and resentment.

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Editor's Note:  If you've already read the previous post, you know that Nina Barclay Beatie remembered "the doll story," too. The gist of Nina's story was the same as Audrey's, but some of the minor details were different--which is exactly what happens to most family stories as they're passed down orally from generation to generation. 

Were there significant incidents in your life that you'd like your descendants to know about? Write 'em down, people!

The Latch String's Always Out

by Audrey Barclay

"The latch string's always out," is an expression commonly used in the early part of this [20th] century when inviting anyone to visit you. This expression came about by the use of a narrow leather thong that was fastened to the latch near the edge of the front door on most houses in those days. The door was latched by loosely bolting a narrow board to the door near one end, letting it extend far enough beyond the edge to fall into a deep notch cut into a matching board nailed to the door facing opposite. A tug on the thong from outside raised the latch, hence the expression, "The latch string's always out."

The latch string was always out on my grandfather's house. He built the house in 1896 from timber cut from the land on which it stood, including the milled lumber. The only exception was the "ceiling boards" with which the huge room was finished inside. An enclosed corner stairway led to the attic room above, with its sloping roof. It was dimly lighted by a small window in each gable end; otherwise it was unfinished. The room provided space for two beds, besides being a wonderful place for a little girl to play on a rainy day. The farmhouse was of hand-hewn logs, the marks of the adz plainly visible between the chinking of mud-like mortar used outside in the crevices to seal out the weather. They were held firmly in place by notches cut near either end, making walls that were sturdy and strong. Today, houses are manufactured and pre-packaged to resemble the log houses of yesterday, and one wonders, will the same warmth be generated from these houses as those of my grandfather's day? Surely, "the latch string will always be out."

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Editor's note: I don't know which of Audrey's grandfathers--West or Smith--built the house she wrote about in the above piece, but when I first read this story, the house I pictured in my mind was this one:

That's Audrey's paternal grandmother, Amy Lucinda (Hagadorn) Smith, in the picture, along with Amy's son (and Audrey's uncle), Arba. Audrey's grandfather, Samuel S. Smith, most likely did build this house, probably with the assistance of all of his sons, especially Audrey's father, Ernest. Sam and Ernest were professional carpenters whose travel to building sites often kept them away from home for long stretches at a time. Here they are, father and son, in one of my favorite family photos (Sam on the left, Ernest on the right):

Don't forget you can click on photos to enlarge them.

When the Sun Sets Red

by Audrey Barclay

When the sun sets red fair weather is ahead

Say the sailors as they sail the sea.

But a red sunrise in the morning skies

Means a storm will soon be raging on the deep.

So on that day in May, just at the close of day

When I met you and gazed into your eyes

I knew I loved you true, and that you loved me too,

Then I kissed you while the sun set red.

When the sun set red in the evening

I asked you if you'd be my bride

And the sun set red in the evening

As we said our vows while we stood side by side.

So when we are grey and old, memories of love our gold

I shall love you while our sun sets red.

It was on an autumn day that I heard the parson say

As the sun sank in the western sky:

"Let no man put asunder." And I gazed at you in wonder

For you were such a bonny, blushing bride.

Then I gave my heart, anew, vowed forever I'd be true

That the omen God had given us would last.

And I blessed that happy day; happiness had come to stay

For I wed you while the sun set red.

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Editor's Note:  It's interesting to me that Grandma wrote this poem from a man's point of view. Makes me wonder if she wrote it just for the sake of writing or, perhaps, on behalf of one of the men in her life. A son maybe? 

If she did "ghostwrite" it for another person, she wouldn't have been the only member of our family to have done that. Her third child (my father) once acknowledged that he'd earned extra money that way. If you're interested in that story, you can click here to read it.