Yeah, I know I'm posting this one early, but church comes early in the morning, and I wanted to have time to do this posting well. My mama (we didn't call her mother or mom) loved poetry and was always reciting something for us, and I guess instilled the love of poetry in at least some of us. She loved to sing old songs too. When I say old, I mean those that were popular back in the early 1900's...like "Put My Little Shoes Away," and "Please, Mr. Conductor" (the sad songs).
This poem today is one that she recited and also it was in one of my elementary school readers. (I was in elementary school in first grade in 1939, so that tells you how long ago I was in school). I think it was in a sixth grade reader. This poem was written in 1878 by Mary Dow Brine who lived from 1816-1913, very close to a hundred years of age.
The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the Winter's Day.
The street was wet with a recent snow And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way.
Nor offered a helping hand to her-So meek, so tired, afraid to stir
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop, The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you cross, if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.
'She somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow,
'And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand,
'If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away.'
And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was 'God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!"
Is that not a beautiful poem? I think of mama when I read it, because she had to walk several blocks each day to work, and I know she walked through snow many times to do so, In her later years, she had ulcers on her legs that sometimes oozed and she had to wrap cloths around them. She never complained. She worked in the hosiery mills for fifty years from the time she was eleven years old till she was 61. She also knelt next to her bed every night and prayed. I know she prayed for each of us.
We quite often took her for granted. You may not realize how much your mother means to you until she is gone. If your mom is still living, let her know how much she means to you. If she isn't, find someone who needs to hear how much she is appreciated and tell her how special she is to you.
This is Blabbin' Grammy signing off for today. Much love to each of you. Bye for now. More later.