About FRANCES CAMPBELL Bramwell
From her parent's journal:
Born January 17, 1912. Weighs 8 lbs. Hasn't very much hair.
Rather a fat baby. Has measles along with her brothers and sisters in April.
Weaned at 10 months. Also walks and climbs. Has some serious falls.
Like the other children talks rather young and says her words plain.
When she has 4 bottom teeth she falls out the door onto the step, knocks one out. Am doubtful if it ever comes in again.
She has twin brothers when she is 2 years, 7 months, 7 days old. She does love them. She would carry them both if she could.
Has pneumonia in November. Such a sick little girl. Nothing but skin and bones left and such pain.
The babies are gone. We will baby her again.
Frail all winter. Every sick spell takes her down.
Likes to stay at home with mama.
Her hair doesn't do well.
Starts to school with sister. Has the flu real bad.
Hemorrhage. (Very bad, but not so bad as Wayne's.)
Chicken Pox summer of 1919.
Whooping cough, spring of 1920. Very bad. Affected like a small baby. Afterward loses her hair.
Has mumps and gland fever winter of 1922, but is getting stronger all the time. Her hair is getting pretty now.
1925. To Utah we go where we can have fruit, fruit.
This account of my mother's childhood is very interesting to me, because in spite of her not being expected to live in her early years, I never knew her to be sick a day of her adult life. An energetic, hard-working woman, it was rare I ever saw my mother in bed. And we loved to brush her thick beautiful hair.
There were 8 children born into her family, but 3 died in infancy and one as a young adult, which left only 4 who lived long and full lives. Three of them were very close, Fran, Carmi and Gwen, their families known as the ABC's, A for Andrews, B for Bramwell and C for Campbell.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
More on Fannie
From Fannie's journal:
We left for Utah on the third of July, 1850.
We traveled on the south side of the Platte River.
I was very ill with cholera and was lying so still that they were digging my grave to bury me when my life was saved by the birth of my child.
My son was born the 5th of August. When he was eight days old, the child, myself, and all our possessions were upset in the wagon and rolled down the bank of the river four or five feet into the water. All was uproar and the men searched desperately for our new son. After considerable searching, Bishop Hunter spied a little piece of his red nightgown and found him beside a box, apparently dead. He held him up by the feet and gave him the name of Alma Platte, after the river he had just been fished out of.
The baby recovered completely with no ill effects.
We left for Utah on the third of July, 1850.
We traveled on the south side of the Platte River.
I was very ill with cholera and was lying so still that they were digging my grave to bury me when my life was saved by the birth of my child.
My son was born the 5th of August. When he was eight days old, the child, myself, and all our possessions were upset in the wagon and rolled down the bank of the river four or five feet into the water. All was uproar and the men searched desperately for our new son. After considerable searching, Bishop Hunter spied a little piece of his red nightgown and found him beside a box, apparently dead. He held him up by the feet and gave him the name of Alma Platte, after the river he had just been fished out of.
The baby recovered completely with no ill effects.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Praise for Pioneers
They cut desire into short lengths
and fed it to the hungry fire of courage.
Long after,
when the flames had died,
molten gold gleamed in the ashes.
They gathered it into bruised palms
and handed it to their children
and their children's children. (Chamberlain)
Jane Snyder Richards 1823-1912
It was June 10, 1846, when Franklin and Jane Richards sold their lovely two-story brick home in Nauvoo for two yoke of half-broken cattle and an old wagon. Taking with them two cows, one trunk of clothing, breadstuffs, and one pound of tea given to Jane by a neighbor, they crossed the Mississippi River to join the rest of the saints, after having been driven from Illinois by threatening mobs. Shortly thereafter, Franklin left his family to return to his mission in England.
On July 23, Jane gave birth to a baby boy who died almost immediately. Jane was desperately ill. She could not bear the thought of burying the tiny body on the plains where it could be dug up and devoured by wolves and coyotes, so they carried the little child with them until they reached Mt. Pisgah, Iowa, where he could be buried a little more decently.
Jane's only other child, little 2-year old Wealthy, had taken sick the day following her father's departure and was becoming weaker and weaker as the journey progressed toward the Missouri River. En route they passed a large potato field and Wealthy asked for a potato. It was one of the only things she had desired to eat for many weeks. When her grandmother Snyder went to ask if she could buy one, the owner's answer was, "I wouldn't sell or give one of you damned Mormons a potato to save your lives." She then sent her dog after Mrs. Snyder.
As Jane's wagon came to a halt at Mt. Pisgah, neither Jane nor Wealthy seemed to have much chance of living. They baby boy was taken and buried. Two months later her sweet little girl passed away at Cutler Park. Jane wrote, "I only lived because I could not die."
At Winter Quarters Jane gained back some strength, but her provisions were nearly exhausted. Some days there was barely enough flour for one pancake. She finally traded her husband's violin for a gallon of wine. That winter was very harsh. Jane's skirts were almost constantly frozen stiff about her ankles and would rattle as she brushed against things. There was nothing to thaw them. Scurvy broke out in the camp and hundreds died from it.
In the spring of 1848 Franklin returned from England. On July 5 they proceeded to Salt Lake City. Jane was so ill during the whole of the journey that she was bedfast in a wagon box. She had to be carried in arms across raging streams.
Three months later they arrived in Salt Lake. It would seem a relief, but Jane writes: "I can't here undertake to describe the great sufferings and privation of food and cold, for want of a comfortable house, that we passed through after three months' sickness on the way. "
The next June a son was born to her, but she was in a bed drenched with rain, with neither crust of bread nor an ounce of flour or meal with which to appease her hunger, so weak and faint and hungry that her life was despaired of. The midwife she had used demanded payment, but Jane had no money. She told her to take anything she saw for payment. The midwife seized a beautiful woolen bedspread worth at least fifteen dollars, coldly remarking, "I may as well take it, for you'll never live to need it."
Jane did regain her strength and went on to give birth to four more children. While her husband served faithfully as an Apostle, Jane presided over the Relief Society in Ogden for 31 years, and served as first counselor in the General Relief Society presidency. She died at the age of 89 and her funeral was one of the biggest ever held.
and fed it to the hungry fire of courage.
Long after,
when the flames had died,
molten gold gleamed in the ashes.
They gathered it into bruised palms
and handed it to their children
and their children's children. (Chamberlain)
Jane Snyder Richards 1823-1912
It was June 10, 1846, when Franklin and Jane Richards sold their lovely two-story brick home in Nauvoo for two yoke of half-broken cattle and an old wagon. Taking with them two cows, one trunk of clothing, breadstuffs, and one pound of tea given to Jane by a neighbor, they crossed the Mississippi River to join the rest of the saints, after having been driven from Illinois by threatening mobs. Shortly thereafter, Franklin left his family to return to his mission in England.
On July 23, Jane gave birth to a baby boy who died almost immediately. Jane was desperately ill. She could not bear the thought of burying the tiny body on the plains where it could be dug up and devoured by wolves and coyotes, so they carried the little child with them until they reached Mt. Pisgah, Iowa, where he could be buried a little more decently.
Jane's only other child, little 2-year old Wealthy, had taken sick the day following her father's departure and was becoming weaker and weaker as the journey progressed toward the Missouri River. En route they passed a large potato field and Wealthy asked for a potato. It was one of the only things she had desired to eat for many weeks. When her grandmother Snyder went to ask if she could buy one, the owner's answer was, "I wouldn't sell or give one of you damned Mormons a potato to save your lives." She then sent her dog after Mrs. Snyder.
As Jane's wagon came to a halt at Mt. Pisgah, neither Jane nor Wealthy seemed to have much chance of living. They baby boy was taken and buried. Two months later her sweet little girl passed away at Cutler Park. Jane wrote, "I only lived because I could not die."
At Winter Quarters Jane gained back some strength, but her provisions were nearly exhausted. Some days there was barely enough flour for one pancake. She finally traded her husband's violin for a gallon of wine. That winter was very harsh. Jane's skirts were almost constantly frozen stiff about her ankles and would rattle as she brushed against things. There was nothing to thaw them. Scurvy broke out in the camp and hundreds died from it.
In the spring of 1848 Franklin returned from England. On July 5 they proceeded to Salt Lake City. Jane was so ill during the whole of the journey that she was bedfast in a wagon box. She had to be carried in arms across raging streams.
Three months later they arrived in Salt Lake. It would seem a relief, but Jane writes: "I can't here undertake to describe the great sufferings and privation of food and cold, for want of a comfortable house, that we passed through after three months' sickness on the way. "
The next June a son was born to her, but she was in a bed drenched with rain, with neither crust of bread nor an ounce of flour or meal with which to appease her hunger, so weak and faint and hungry that her life was despaired of. The midwife she had used demanded payment, but Jane had no money. She told her to take anything she saw for payment. The midwife seized a beautiful woolen bedspread worth at least fifteen dollars, coldly remarking, "I may as well take it, for you'll never live to need it."
Jane did regain her strength and went on to give birth to four more children. While her husband served faithfully as an Apostle, Jane presided over the Relief Society in Ogden for 31 years, and served as first counselor in the General Relief Society presidency. She died at the age of 89 and her funeral was one of the biggest ever held.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Roots
Out of the depths of our roots,
From the courage of those who have gone before us,
In the richness of our shared traditions
And by the Love abundantly given and received,
We have become strong. (Audry Brown Livingston)
Everyone is an heir.
We all inherit things from people who have gone before us.
An inheritance may be land or money or property.
It may include traits, characteristices, talents, rights, culture, traditions and blessings.
You may or may not be a direct descendant of pioneers,
but we all are blessed by the heritage they left us.
Our ancestors generously gave us a legacy of faith, courage, determination, hard work, committment and sacrifice.
That is our heritage.
We stand on the shoulders of giants.
We stand on higher ground, our vision is greater,
our lives are better because of them.
In their journals, they say --
"We did it for our children, and our children's children,
in the hopes that our freedom and our faith
will mean as much to them as it did to us."
That is why we remember pioneers: not because it's history,
but because it's our legacy.
It is for us to pass on to our children, and our children's children.
Bramwell relatives who helped build the Nauvoo temple:
George Spilsbury, husband of Fannie Smith
Phinehas Richards, brother of Willard and cousin of Brigham Young
Samuel Whitney Richards, son of Phinehas
Relatives killed at Haun’s Mill:
George Richards (son of Phinehas) when he was 15 years old.
Relatives who were in the Mormon Battalion:
Joseph Richards (son of Phinehas) died of exposure at age 17.
Relatives who came over on the Mayflower:
George Soule
Relatives who knew Joseph Smith:
George Spilsbury was a bodyguard for the Prophet Joseph Smith. He and Fannie received their partriarchal blessings from Hyrum Smith. He saw the martyred bodies of Joseph and Hyrum, then saw Brigham Young receive the mantle of the prophet, and was sealed by Brigham Young at the Endowment House in SLC.
He wrote in his journal:
“The question may be asked by some of my grandchildren: ‘Did you feel disappointed when you saw Joseph Smith for the first time?’ I will tell you. All my troubles & privations of leaving my father & mother, brothers & sisters, & my native land seemed nothing compared with the joy I experienced when I first heard and saw him, the Prophet Joseph Smith, preach. I felt greatly blessed of the Lord in having such a glorious privilege."
From the courage of those who have gone before us,
In the richness of our shared traditions
And by the Love abundantly given and received,
We have become strong. (Audry Brown Livingston)
Everyone is an heir.
We all inherit things from people who have gone before us.
An inheritance may be land or money or property.
It may include traits, characteristices, talents, rights, culture, traditions and blessings.
You may or may not be a direct descendant of pioneers,
but we all are blessed by the heritage they left us.
Our ancestors generously gave us a legacy of faith, courage, determination, hard work, committment and sacrifice.
That is our heritage.
We stand on the shoulders of giants.
We stand on higher ground, our vision is greater,
our lives are better because of them.
In their journals, they say --
"We did it for our children, and our children's children,
in the hopes that our freedom and our faith
will mean as much to them as it did to us."
That is why we remember pioneers: not because it's history,
but because it's our legacy.
It is for us to pass on to our children, and our children's children.
Bramwell relatives who helped build the Nauvoo temple:
George Spilsbury, husband of Fannie Smith
Phinehas Richards, brother of Willard and cousin of Brigham Young
Samuel Whitney Richards, son of Phinehas
Relatives killed at Haun’s Mill:
George Richards (son of Phinehas) when he was 15 years old.
Relatives who were in the Mormon Battalion:
Joseph Richards (son of Phinehas) died of exposure at age 17.
Relatives who came over on the Mayflower:
George Soule
Relatives who knew Joseph Smith:
George Spilsbury was a bodyguard for the Prophet Joseph Smith. He and Fannie received their partriarchal blessings from Hyrum Smith. He saw the martyred bodies of Joseph and Hyrum, then saw Brigham Young receive the mantle of the prophet, and was sealed by Brigham Young at the Endowment House in SLC.
He wrote in his journal:
“The question may be asked by some of my grandchildren: ‘Did you feel disappointed when you saw Joseph Smith for the first time?’ I will tell you. All my troubles & privations of leaving my father & mother, brothers & sisters, & my native land seemed nothing compared with the joy I experienced when I first heard and saw him, the Prophet Joseph Smith, preach. I felt greatly blessed of the Lord in having such a glorious privilege."
Fannie Smith Spilsbury
"You will be sorry."
"I can hear it just as clearly today as I did many years ago.
The voice was that of my father's.
The place was Liverpool, England."
Would you care to hear the true story of a fair, rather small young English lady?
It is the story of my great-great grandmother Fannie Smith.
It began over 6,000 miles away.
The year was 1842.
This is her story:
My home in England was very comfortable because my father was a well-to-do squire. I was his only child and love was showered upon me. I was born on Christmas day, 1823, and as he cuddled me, his first and only child, in his arms, he called me his Christmas present from God. My mother taught me sewing and embroidery and trained me in the gentle arts of beauty and culture.
One evening some girl friends came over to our house and begged me to go with them to hear some funny men from America preach about a new religion that had started in America. This was curious to me as I belonged to the Church of England, but I truly was not happy in my religion. Well, we went, giggling, to hear about the queer religion and see the Americans.
Latter-day Saint missionaries preached about their prophet, golden plates found in a hill, and other gospel principles. I was not amused. Everything they said touched me to the depths of my being. I believed every word I heard that night. Many nights after that I sought out their meetings. I wanted to join, but I knew my father would never consent. It would have to be done in secret.
Therefore I went one night and was baptized in a river where the ice had to be broken to perform the baptism. I walked half a mile home with my wet clothes freezing about me, but my spirit carried me along as if I were a cloud. As I lay in my bed that night, thinking about what I had done, I could hear an English voice, clear and distinct, say: "You are now a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint."
Later I was confirmed by one of our own curly-headed, blue-eyed English boys, George Spilsbury. We became better acquainted, and later we were married.
After our marriage, I told my father of joining the church. My father nearly disowned me. He would not let me take any of my lovely things from my home, and he made my life miserable.
We decided to go to America. My father came to me and said, "Fannie, I will put this locket and chain around your neck. Send it to me as a sign that you are sorry and want to come back, and I will make it possible." As we sailed away, my young-girl heart ached, tears streamed from my eyes, and I waved farewell. I never saw them again.
My eyes and my heart turned to my husband, and to the west, for the new home ahead of us. We never dreamed of the hardships and tragedies that we would have to endure. After a long and rough trip, we anchored at New Orleans. We had $5 I had earned on the ship sewing. We traded our clothes for pots and pans, and arranged for the dreadfully hard journey up the Mississippi River to Nauvoo.
The first time I saw Joseph Smith, I knew him, though I had never seen a picture. He and his brother Hyrum spent many hours in our home. My husband helped build the Nauvoo temple, and he acted as bodyguard for the Prophet. We were in Nauvoo when Joseph and Hyrum's martyred bodies were brought from Carthage.
Times were hard. We lived in poverty and fear. Our home was meager, and we had only boxes for furniture. I had to learn to make quilts, and there was much else to learn. Four little girls were born to us; all died in infancy. My health was poor. But I never turned my heart to England, for this was my life and these were my people.
Our exodus from Nauvoo began when the river was frozen over with ice. After a winter of illness we began the trek west. Every day was an adventure. We finally arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, eager to permanently settle and make a home. It was difficult, but we were like one big family, helping each other and working together.
After a few years we moved south to Draper to colonize there. After a few years, we moved south again, to Dixie. Then we moved again, this time our last, and settled in Tocquerville. Here we lost four more of our children. Only five of our thirteen children were allowed to stay with us.
Now I sit here in my wheelchair on my 80th birthday. I hold the locket in my hand, and I can hear my father say, oh so long ago, "Fannie, you will be sorry."
Why couldn't he have known, as I did, that I was doing the right thing for my children and my children's children? I am glad that we are in America. We hope that we have planted well, that our children's children might have the faith that was our choicest possession.
I was never sorry. No, there are no regrets.
"I can hear it just as clearly today as I did many years ago.
The voice was that of my father's.
The place was Liverpool, England."
Would you care to hear the true story of a fair, rather small young English lady?
It is the story of my great-great grandmother Fannie Smith.
It began over 6,000 miles away.
The year was 1842.
This is her story:
My home in England was very comfortable because my father was a well-to-do squire. I was his only child and love was showered upon me. I was born on Christmas day, 1823, and as he cuddled me, his first and only child, in his arms, he called me his Christmas present from God. My mother taught me sewing and embroidery and trained me in the gentle arts of beauty and culture.
One evening some girl friends came over to our house and begged me to go with them to hear some funny men from America preach about a new religion that had started in America. This was curious to me as I belonged to the Church of England, but I truly was not happy in my religion. Well, we went, giggling, to hear about the queer religion and see the Americans.
Latter-day Saint missionaries preached about their prophet, golden plates found in a hill, and other gospel principles. I was not amused. Everything they said touched me to the depths of my being. I believed every word I heard that night. Many nights after that I sought out their meetings. I wanted to join, but I knew my father would never consent. It would have to be done in secret.
Therefore I went one night and was baptized in a river where the ice had to be broken to perform the baptism. I walked half a mile home with my wet clothes freezing about me, but my spirit carried me along as if I were a cloud. As I lay in my bed that night, thinking about what I had done, I could hear an English voice, clear and distinct, say: "You are now a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint."
Later I was confirmed by one of our own curly-headed, blue-eyed English boys, George Spilsbury. We became better acquainted, and later we were married.
After our marriage, I told my father of joining the church. My father nearly disowned me. He would not let me take any of my lovely things from my home, and he made my life miserable.
We decided to go to America. My father came to me and said, "Fannie, I will put this locket and chain around your neck. Send it to me as a sign that you are sorry and want to come back, and I will make it possible." As we sailed away, my young-girl heart ached, tears streamed from my eyes, and I waved farewell. I never saw them again.
My eyes and my heart turned to my husband, and to the west, for the new home ahead of us. We never dreamed of the hardships and tragedies that we would have to endure. After a long and rough trip, we anchored at New Orleans. We had $5 I had earned on the ship sewing. We traded our clothes for pots and pans, and arranged for the dreadfully hard journey up the Mississippi River to Nauvoo.
The first time I saw Joseph Smith, I knew him, though I had never seen a picture. He and his brother Hyrum spent many hours in our home. My husband helped build the Nauvoo temple, and he acted as bodyguard for the Prophet. We were in Nauvoo when Joseph and Hyrum's martyred bodies were brought from Carthage.
Times were hard. We lived in poverty and fear. Our home was meager, and we had only boxes for furniture. I had to learn to make quilts, and there was much else to learn. Four little girls were born to us; all died in infancy. My health was poor. But I never turned my heart to England, for this was my life and these were my people.
Our exodus from Nauvoo began when the river was frozen over with ice. After a winter of illness we began the trek west. Every day was an adventure. We finally arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, eager to permanently settle and make a home. It was difficult, but we were like one big family, helping each other and working together.
After a few years we moved south to Draper to colonize there. After a few years, we moved south again, to Dixie. Then we moved again, this time our last, and settled in Tocquerville. Here we lost four more of our children. Only five of our thirteen children were allowed to stay with us.
Now I sit here in my wheelchair on my 80th birthday. I hold the locket in my hand, and I can hear my father say, oh so long ago, "Fannie, you will be sorry."
Why couldn't he have known, as I did, that I was doing the right thing for my children and my children's children? I am glad that we are in America. We hope that we have planted well, that our children's children might have the faith that was our choicest possession.
I was never sorry. No, there are no regrets.
Monday, July 21, 2008
LOL
They say that if you want to give God a good laugh,
--just tell Him your plans.
Well, He and I are having a good laugh.
Just as soon as I start talking about the free time I’m going to have, as soon as I say that out loud, my calendar and my life fill to overflowing.
Well, it was nice for a day or two to think I actually would have some disposable time.
And I’m spared from getting bored or lazy.
I just hope I still have my eyesight when I finally get some "free" time.
--just tell Him your plans.
Well, He and I are having a good laugh.
Just as soon as I start talking about the free time I’m going to have, as soon as I say that out loud, my calendar and my life fill to overflowing.
Well, it was nice for a day or two to think I actually would have some disposable time.
And I’m spared from getting bored or lazy.
I just hope I still have my eyesight when I finally get some "free" time.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Free? Time
They “re-organized” at work again. They've cut my hours down to two days a week. We’ll see how long it lasts, but meanwhile I have some free time!
Free time.
Is time ever free?
My list of "Things to Do" is so long I can never die.
But for now I have some hope of tackling long-neglected projects.
I may even clean some closets.
Time is never free. It always has a cost.
Every minute costs a part of your life, your very soul, a piece of eternity.
But time also pays.
There are dividends in a job accomplished, a relationship strengthened, a memory made.
For such a valuable commodity, you’d think we’d use it better than we do.
I once took an Institute class from Hartman Rector, Jr., formerly of the Seventy. I don’t know how true it is, but he said that our lives are like a video tape, where everything we do is recorded. Happily, when we do something wrong and then repent, that part is erased.
We rejoice that it can be so, but realize that we can get to heaven with a lot of blank spots on our tape, spots that instead could have been filled with righteous things.
If someone were to watch the video of my life, they would want a remote control in their hands, to fast forward all the boring parts, all the hours I spent idly, doing nothing interesting or productive.
So, is time a friend, or an enemy?
We crave it. We curse it. We kill it.
We treasure it, count on it, waste it.
We love it, hate it, ignore it.
And it just keeps passing, gobbling up our life.
"I still find each day too short
for all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,
and all the friends I want to see." --John Burrough
Whining about it doesn’t help.
It just takes time.
And if I’m making a movie, then I better get going.
Lights!
Camera!
Action!
Free time.
Is time ever free?
My list of "Things to Do" is so long I can never die.
But for now I have some hope of tackling long-neglected projects.
I may even clean some closets.
Time is never free. It always has a cost.
Every minute costs a part of your life, your very soul, a piece of eternity.
But time also pays.
There are dividends in a job accomplished, a relationship strengthened, a memory made.
For such a valuable commodity, you’d think we’d use it better than we do.
I once took an Institute class from Hartman Rector, Jr., formerly of the Seventy. I don’t know how true it is, but he said that our lives are like a video tape, where everything we do is recorded. Happily, when we do something wrong and then repent, that part is erased.
We rejoice that it can be so, but realize that we can get to heaven with a lot of blank spots on our tape, spots that instead could have been filled with righteous things.
If someone were to watch the video of my life, they would want a remote control in their hands, to fast forward all the boring parts, all the hours I spent idly, doing nothing interesting or productive.
So, is time a friend, or an enemy?
We crave it. We curse it. We kill it.
We treasure it, count on it, waste it.
We love it, hate it, ignore it.
And it just keeps passing, gobbling up our life.
"I still find each day too short
for all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,
and all the friends I want to see." --John Burrough
Whining about it doesn’t help.
It just takes time.
And if I’m making a movie, then I better get going.
Lights!
Camera!
Action!
Friday, July 18, 2008
My Funeral
To my family:
As we gathered and visited at my father’s viewing a number of years ago, some of my siblings started to talk about what they wanted and didn’t want when they died: the kind and even color of flowers, etc. I was so surprised as I had never thought about those things. I was also quite sure that it was the first time any of them had made such things known.
I have thought many times since then that if there are things we care about, we ought to tell someone, and even get it in writing.
So here’s mine. These are the things I care about:
Expenses: I do not want a lot of money spent to bury me, so don’t feel guilty if you choose the cheapest casket; I would. A pine box is just fine. Though I love a soft bed, I don’t need one when I am dead and without feeling. I’ve also learned that Costco sells caskets, and there is a casket discount store in Dallas, Texas.
Location: The one expense I may forgive is getting me out of Texas. I don’t care where I’m buried, just not Texas. Washington is home, and Cemetery Hill right in the neighborhood, but if people want to visit my grave and Utah or Nevada is more convenient, then anywhere in the West is fine with me. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding my body.
Speakers: Anyone who wants to speak may speak, but no one has to. I hope it's not too hard to find something nice to say about me. All to be done in praise and testimony of the Lord's goodness.
Music: This is the one area I care about.
I have joked about singing the Michael McLean song, Together Forever, because then I know everyone will, after they laugh, cry. But I’m not kidding; the music is on my piano.
The one song I really want sung was sung at my Mother’s funeral: Goin’ Home. It expresses so perfectly just the way I feel. The music is on my piano.
I have asked my son Jonathan to sing at my funeral. He can sing alone or with someone, a song of my choosing or his, but I would like him to sing. (I like Negro spirituals.)
The one hymn I care about is Be Still My Soul. Think of my testimony when you sing it.
If you want to know my other favorite hymns, they include:
Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation
Sing Praise to Him who reigns above, the Lord of all creation
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
Father in Heaven, in thy love abounding
Redeemer of Israel
Abide with me
Holy, Holy, Holy
People: I know it doesn’t always seem worth spending a lot of money to go see someone who is dead, but I’ve learned the hard way that I would like all of my children at my funeral. You might learn something about me you didn’t know, or think better of me than you have. Besides, you have to stake your claim to my junk.
Otherwise, let my siblings know and email everyone in my address book. Some old friend might miss me.
That’s about all I care about. Don’t stand out in the rain. Tell your children of my testimony. Cry for yourself if you must, but do not cry for me. I will be in Heaven, and happier than you can even imagine.
And don’t forget, I’ll be holding a place for you at my table.
As we gathered and visited at my father’s viewing a number of years ago, some of my siblings started to talk about what they wanted and didn’t want when they died: the kind and even color of flowers, etc. I was so surprised as I had never thought about those things. I was also quite sure that it was the first time any of them had made such things known.
I have thought many times since then that if there are things we care about, we ought to tell someone, and even get it in writing.
So here’s mine. These are the things I care about:
Expenses: I do not want a lot of money spent to bury me, so don’t feel guilty if you choose the cheapest casket; I would. A pine box is just fine. Though I love a soft bed, I don’t need one when I am dead and without feeling. I’ve also learned that Costco sells caskets, and there is a casket discount store in Dallas, Texas.
Location: The one expense I may forgive is getting me out of Texas. I don’t care where I’m buried, just not Texas. Washington is home, and Cemetery Hill right in the neighborhood, but if people want to visit my grave and Utah or Nevada is more convenient, then anywhere in the West is fine with me. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding my body.
Speakers: Anyone who wants to speak may speak, but no one has to. I hope it's not too hard to find something nice to say about me. All to be done in praise and testimony of the Lord's goodness.
Music: This is the one area I care about.
I have joked about singing the Michael McLean song, Together Forever, because then I know everyone will, after they laugh, cry. But I’m not kidding; the music is on my piano.
The one song I really want sung was sung at my Mother’s funeral: Goin’ Home. It expresses so perfectly just the way I feel. The music is on my piano.
I have asked my son Jonathan to sing at my funeral. He can sing alone or with someone, a song of my choosing or his, but I would like him to sing. (I like Negro spirituals.)
The one hymn I care about is Be Still My Soul. Think of my testimony when you sing it.
If you want to know my other favorite hymns, they include:
Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation
Sing Praise to Him who reigns above, the Lord of all creation
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
Father in Heaven, in thy love abounding
Redeemer of Israel
Abide with me
Holy, Holy, Holy
People: I know it doesn’t always seem worth spending a lot of money to go see someone who is dead, but I’ve learned the hard way that I would like all of my children at my funeral. You might learn something about me you didn’t know, or think better of me than you have. Besides, you have to stake your claim to my junk.
Otherwise, let my siblings know and email everyone in my address book. Some old friend might miss me.
That’s about all I care about. Don’t stand out in the rain. Tell your children of my testimony. Cry for yourself if you must, but do not cry for me. I will be in Heaven, and happier than you can even imagine.
And don’t forget, I’ll be holding a place for you at my table.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Fading.....
I have a small red spot in the center of my abdomen.
It’s from the bite of some unknown critter.
I notice it every day.
Everyday it gets a little smaller and fades a little more.
I got it six months ago when I was in South Africa.
Like the red spot on my torso, my memories of Africa are shrinking and fading a little every day.
But they are still with me, still a part of me, something I notice every day.
I haven’t written much about my experience in South Africa.
I’ve never known quite what to say.
It was interesting.
It was enlightening.
It was life-changing.
But aren’t we changed by everywhere we’ve been and everyone we’ve met?
I don’t know if I’m more changed by the people I went with,
or the people I met there,
by the good things that happened there
or the not-so-happy things.
I’ve put the quilts I bought there on my beds, hung the wall-hangings on my walls, and set my Zulu dolls out. I guess I’m hoping if I look at them long enough I’ll want to write about it.
I know I don’t want to forget.
So this is a start, though not much of one.
Words seem to add color and give strength to a greying experience.
I wonder what else I should write about before it fades away.
“It’s getting dark,” my Dad often said to hurry us up.
Indeed, the night is coming on.
It’s from the bite of some unknown critter.
I notice it every day.
Everyday it gets a little smaller and fades a little more.
I got it six months ago when I was in South Africa.
Like the red spot on my torso, my memories of Africa are shrinking and fading a little every day.
But they are still with me, still a part of me, something I notice every day.
I haven’t written much about my experience in South Africa.
I’ve never known quite what to say.
It was interesting.
It was enlightening.
It was life-changing.
But aren’t we changed by everywhere we’ve been and everyone we’ve met?
I don’t know if I’m more changed by the people I went with,
or the people I met there,
by the good things that happened there
or the not-so-happy things.
I’ve put the quilts I bought there on my beds, hung the wall-hangings on my walls, and set my Zulu dolls out. I guess I’m hoping if I look at them long enough I’ll want to write about it.
I know I don’t want to forget.
So this is a start, though not much of one.
Words seem to add color and give strength to a greying experience.
I wonder what else I should write about before it fades away.
“It’s getting dark,” my Dad often said to hurry us up.
Indeed, the night is coming on.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
The Party's Over
The party’s over, but it sure was fun while it lasted.
My two oldest daughters and their oldest daughters came to visit me in Texas!
Jennifer flew in first with Kate and Megan.
A few days later Elizabeth and Rachel joined the fun.
Then Jenn’s family left and Elizabeth and Rachel stayed on.
We did some fun things together:
We cheered the knights at Medieval Times,
had Jack Sparrow as our waiter at the Magic Time Machine,
had a tea party at Alice’s (as in Wonderland), hats, boas and all,
walked the jungle with real fish and fauna at the Aquarium and fake ones at Rainforest Café,
shopped at Texas Treasures and Sam Moon’s and the Mall,
got cookies at the cookie shop and popcorn at the popcorn store,
played Rock Band, In a Pickle, and the family memory game,
wore sarongs every day,
and ate and ate and ate
and swam and swam and swam.
It was a barrel of fun.
All-night slumber parties usually are.
Now the party's over, and they've all gone home.
I'm taking my time putting the bedding and pool toys away.
I don't want it to be over.
It wasn’t quite the experience of baking cookies with Grandma that I first envisioned,
but there was just too much to do on the first visit to Texas that they will remember.
Their suitcases were fuller going home than when they came.
I hope they were filled with happy memories.
My house is quiet and empty now--
no bedding or people filling up my living room,
no shoes or towels littering the hall,
no Disney channel blaring all hours of the night.
It's quiet, but not lonely.
For I have happy memories to fill the space,
a clearer picture of each girl's face,
a closer bond and a heart that's full,
for the time I had with each, and all.
My two oldest daughters and their oldest daughters came to visit me in Texas!
Jennifer flew in first with Kate and Megan.
A few days later Elizabeth and Rachel joined the fun.
Then Jenn’s family left and Elizabeth and Rachel stayed on.
We did some fun things together:
We cheered the knights at Medieval Times,
had Jack Sparrow as our waiter at the Magic Time Machine,
had a tea party at Alice’s (as in Wonderland), hats, boas and all,
walked the jungle with real fish and fauna at the Aquarium and fake ones at Rainforest Café,
shopped at Texas Treasures and Sam Moon’s and the Mall,
got cookies at the cookie shop and popcorn at the popcorn store,
played Rock Band, In a Pickle, and the family memory game,
wore sarongs every day,
and ate and ate and ate
and swam and swam and swam.
It was a barrel of fun.
All-night slumber parties usually are.
Now the party's over, and they've all gone home.
I'm taking my time putting the bedding and pool toys away.
I don't want it to be over.
It wasn’t quite the experience of baking cookies with Grandma that I first envisioned,
but there was just too much to do on the first visit to Texas that they will remember.
Their suitcases were fuller going home than when they came.
I hope they were filled with happy memories.
My house is quiet and empty now--
no bedding or people filling up my living room,
no shoes or towels littering the hall,
no Disney channel blaring all hours of the night.
It's quiet, but not lonely.
For I have happy memories to fill the space,
a clearer picture of each girl's face,
a closer bond and a heart that's full,
for the time I had with each, and all.
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