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May 19, 2001 Cousins from Phoenix, Ariz., Mark, Karly and daughter, Margaret Belanger, came up Friday evening to spend time with Sharon and Stuart Porter, and enjoyed a lovely Saturday morning breakfast with them. Sharon said for Mother’s Day that Stuart took her out to lunch at Hunan’s, and all the kids called wishing her a happy Mother’s Day. All the neighborhood women are mighty busy working in the yard, trying to get ahead of the weeds, and unwanted grass that is trying to take over. There are already some gardens that are planted, even the tomato plants. Hopefully, there won’t be anymore killing frosts. Eileen Patterson took her mother-in-law Elizabeth out to the Anasazi for a nice Mother’s Day dinner, and they had a good visit. I went over to visit with Joyce Reed on Saturday morning, and we reminisced over old times, all things in general especially our better halves, and decided that women have many faults but men have only two. Everything they say and everything they do. Of course, we were just talking. There just isn’t a great lot of news, but all you ladies probably came to the club meeting on Friday May 18, at 9:30 at Grange Hall for an outdoor clean-up. Following is a poem, author unknown, taken from the fifth grade Elson Gray Reader. Maybe I have had it in my column before, but it’s still a good poem. Somebody’s Mother "The woman was old and ragged, And gray and bent with the chill of the winter’s day. The street was wet with the 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 timid, 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 across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm she placed, And so, without hurt or harm, he guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content. ‘She’s 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’." My dear old school teacher knew this poem by heart, and how I loved to hear her recite it. She knew so many poems from memory, and instilled in each of us school children a desire to learn them and to memorize them, too. We went down to the Round-Up cafe for dinner on Sunday and it’s a very nice place to eat. Good food, clean building, neat tables, and the waitresses have their hair tied up, not flopping around their heads, shoulders, etc. The restrooms have a Victorian atmosphere. The only things that bothers me, though is the waste of food. For goodness sakes if people don’t want to eat all they order, take it home, eat it for supper or give it to the dogs, cats, or chickens if they have any. But waste not, want not. |
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Copyright © 2001 the Cortez Journal.
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