Remember Mother

Have you always worn a red rose
On your coat or on your dress?
If you have, then you are lucky,
Just how lucky you can’t guess.

For you’ll never know until she’s gone
Just how much she meant to you.
You will never find a love
So unquestioningly true.

Don’t wait until a white rose
You must wear on Mother’s Day.
Show her your appreciation
While on earth God lets her stay.

May 14, 1939

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The Baby

What is our baby? A gift of God
To be cherished and trained and adored–
New feet to walk where old ones have trod–
The lost youth of his parents, restored.

A pink and white angel with eyes of blue,
Bundle from heaven, sweet as a rose,
Precious elf with a smile that’s new
And the tiniest, saucy round nose.

I’ll hold him and love him and watch him grow–
He’s a baby for such a short span.
It’s a law of nature, as well we know,
That our baby will soon be a man.

April 20, 1944

Becca notes: Janette’s baby turns 71 today!  Happy birthday, Dad!

Somebody’s Dad

All day he sits and stares at life–
This man whose days are numbered.
His friends, his cronies, and his wife
For many years have slumbered.

Who knows what thoughts are in his head–
What hopes, what memories, what fears?
His world consists of chair and bed
And a few old souvenirs.

Patiently he awaits the end.
Gladly all his life he gave
To family, neighbor, and friend–
And his reward is but the grave.

June 16, 1940

My Mom

A healing balm for every ill had she,
From measles to a childishly skinned knee,
A never-failing source of sympathy.
She never seemed to tire of my society
Whether happy or bowed down by misery.
Her tenderness, as boundless as the sea,
Will live forever in my memory.
If I should ever raise a family,
I know that I will strive to be
As grand to them as my mom is to me.

May 11, 1941

Our House

It’s not a very big house.
We haven’t an upstairs.
It’s just an ordinary house
With beds–and books–and chairs.

It’s like a thousand houses
And a hundred thousand more–
With walls, a porch, a chimney,
With windows and a floor.

And yet, to us, it’s different;
It’s set strangely apart,
For each plant and board and thread
Is entangled in our heart.

So many little houses
In this land of the free and blest–
Yet to each family, one house
Is so different from the rest.

December 24, 1939