The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
Greetings to ever one in western Illinois and all readers of The Quill.
I'm a hope'n you'ns all had a memorable Mothers Day weekend with the sunshine and all. Hopefully, ya got a chance to gather with friends and relatives and share some good times.
They is, at the time of write'n this column, predict'n rain fer the middle of the week.
If'n it does show up, I'm a hope'n ever one gets a chance at some field work beforehand.
With the farmers not able to work their fields due to wet soggy ground, they is raid'n me mushroom patches before I can gets to 'em with me mushroom dog.
Ma is a gonna hafta give me some time off from her "Honey do" chores or we aint a gonna have any mushrooms fer eat'n this season. There is some mighty big ones be'n found out there whilst I'm spend'n time a chore'n.
They sez them morel mushrooms is a bring'n $25 to $50 a pound depend'n on the size money bag the buyer has.
Well, ma is a gonna have to raise my allowance or I won't even be able to afford that option to get a chance at eat'n some of those dandy morsels.
The Girl I Used To Be
I'm a write'n this column on Mothers Day, so I figure I'll share with our readers a short piece on
"The Girl That I Used To Be"
She came tonight as I sat alone,
The girl that I used to be.
She gazed at me with her earnest eyes
And questioned me reproachfully.
“Have you forgotten the many plans,
The hopes that were held for you;
The great career, the splendid fame,
And the wonderful things to do?
"Where is your mansion of stately height,
With its gardens surpassing fair?
The silken robe that was planned for you
And the jewels for your hair?"
And as she talked, I was very sad
For I wanted her pleased with me,
This slender girl from the shadowy past,
The girl I used to be.
Then gently arising I took her hand
And guided her up the stair,
Where peacefully sleeping my babies lay,
Innocent, sweet, and fair.
I told her that they were my only gems,
And precious they are to me;
That my silken robe is motherhood
Of happy simplicity.
That my mansion of stately height is love,
And the only career I know
Is serving each day within sheltering walls
The dear ones who need me so.
And as I spoke to my shadowy guest,
She smiled through her tears at me,
For I saw that the woman that I am now
Pleased the girl I used to be.
Thar ya has it then, something write'n maybe few of you'ns can relate to. The author is unknown, but the story is shore enough familiar.
To follow that up appropriately fer a few of you'ns to dwell on, here is some thoughts by Alan Beck.
All mothers are beautiful when they are young-remember? Then as the years turn into decades, Mother meets another man besides Dad and this man is Old Father Time.
Her fresh beauty changes after she and Old Father Time get to be good friends.
There are little cut lines on her thumb made by the paring knife, and the winter winds roughen her cheeks when she hangs out the clothes (even when she uses all those magic creams).
She doesn't carry the grocery bags so jauntily as when you were skipping along by her side.
And her eyes, once dancing, are tired because they have seen so many, many things.
Then one day, Mother looks in the mirror and says to herself, "I am no longer pretty," and it is a sad and lonely day.
Mother is seldom wrong, but she was wrong that time.
The beauty of mothers is as indestructible as Faith, Hope, and Love because mothers are all these things and more.
When the years roll on and the children scatter to the faraway places of the earth, Mother's job is done.
Her little ones have become young men and women, for better or for worse, and there is nothing left that she possibly can do.
Now she can sit back and relax and take things easy in the golden autumn of her life.
But does she? No!
Now she has grandchildren to visit, to plan for, to buy for, to make for, to sew for, to knit for, and if she lives long enough she becomes a great-grandmother.
Only then can she stop and rest and spend the remainder of her days just being as beautiful as only great-grandmothers can be.
But whether she be eighteen or eighty, Mother is an irreplaceable treasure.
None other will ever love you half as well or half so foolishly. None other will be so sure you are right, good and worthy. Of course, sometimes she is wrong, but God love her for it and keep her forever in His grace.
That's it fer this column. I'm a hope'n ya enjoyed these post-Mothers Day thoughts.
Have a good week, visit friends, and do a good deed or two whilst ya are still able. Hope'n to see you'ns in church this weekend. Where ever ya is, what ever ya be a do'n, BE A GOOD ONE!
Keep on Smile'n
Catch ya later