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So long as there are homes to which men turn at the close of day;
So long as there are homes where children are, where women stay;
If love, and loyalty and faith, be found across these sills,
A stricken nation can recover from its ills.
So long as there are homes where fires burn; and there is bread;
So long as there are home where lamps are lit; and prayers are said;
Although people falter through the dark; and nations grope;
With God himself back of these little homes there is hope.
Grace Noll Crowell
CORRECTION: I had thought that this poem in my grandmother's handwriting among her papers had been her work. Of course during most of her life there was no quick and easy photocopy available, if you wanted a copy of something you'd borrowed you wrote it out yourself. Now, my readers here likely won't do either of those things – they'll copy and paste the text into a social media post, or add it to their collection of browser bookmarks.
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"My wedding cake" – Jessie Alberta Silvernail Card
"Mother's receipt – 1928"
Ingredients
Instructions
Makes 10 pounds of fruit cake
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I know a sweet woman
Whose heart is pure gold,
She's the kind of woman
With whom I'd like to grow old.
I know that she loves me
With a love great and true,
Though the storm clouds may gather
Or the skies are bright blue.
Through great labor and pain
She gave me a son,
Of whom I'll be proud
When life's race is done.
Who is this good woman
With a heart of pure gold?
Who is this good woman
Whose love won't grow cold?
Who is this grand woman
With such great sparkling life?
I write this in tribute
To my dear beloved wife!
Wurzburg, Germany - 1953
Sergeant William F. Card
January 22, 1929 - February 19, 1993
Out there somewhere beyond the sea,
Down where the clouds lie on the lea,
He found his sweet Penelope,
With buds of roses in her hair
And kisses on her mouth.
There is no sweet Penelope
Out there somewhere for me,
With buds of roses in her hair
And kisses on her mouth.
But I can hear the whispering lips
That fly before the outbound ships;
And I can hear the breakers
On the sands a-calling come.
This poem apparently is derived from the story [The Mucker] by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I have not yet read the whole story to see whether these verses are a compilation of lines from the story, or whether they are Dad's own work in imitation of Burroughs. It was of interest to me primarily because it was written in his own handwriting. (I am hoping that such samples can help me understand the hereditary factors involved in dysgraphia.)
© Copyright 1997 - James Card - Permission is granted for non-commercial use of all original material.
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