Poems and Stories Written by My Mother

My Mother's Poems

As noted in my book Windsor's Child, my mother, Edna Marie Schott Parsons, loved to write poems. In fact, it is from my mother that I learned to love words.

Some of her poetry is included in my book, but here are some poems I did not know about when the book was being put together. I am indebted to my neice, Lynda Ford Fleiner, for preserving these and sending them to me.

When I Was Young

When I was young
I could skip a rope,
I could climb a tree,
I could row a boat,
I could run with the wind
And play in the sun.
Never had to work, just had fun
When I was young.

Now I am older
Things seem so hard.
I can't walk a block
without getting tired.
I can't wash my hair
or clean out the tub.
I can't climb the stairs
Or change a light bulb.
I can't go out on my porch to sit,
If I took a fall
They would all have a fit.

But I can sweep the floor
And I can wash a cup.
I can bend over
And pick things up.
I make a good bed
And make a good meal.
I don't have to work,
I don't have to steal.
I have a nice home
That I can't keep clean.
But I know now
I am not seventeen.
I am older.

Down Memory Lane

The house on Tiffany Street in Ridgetown, Ontario, in which my mother grew up.

Let us take a stroll
down Memory Lane today
to a life that I once knew
and now seems so far away.

To my home and friends and family
that I left so long ago
and to the scenes of my childhood
that in my memory come and go.

I know that things have changed now
the years have made it so.
But taking a walk down Memory Lane
is good for us all, you know.

Last Week

Last week my house was full
of noise and scraped up knees
and banging doors
with children scattered
here and there
and books and toys just
everywhere.

The table was so crowded
that some just had to wait
while others went out on the porch
and took along their plates.

With all the dishes washed and
dried and things all put away
all the children were in their bed
it was quiet I must say.

Now I'm sitting here all alone
as lonely as can be.
How I wish that I could have
those kids all back with me.

We Are Moving Today

Our Lincoln Park, Michigan home, the home from which my mother was moving after 40 years when she wrote this poem. This picture was taken in the 1950's; the house changed greatly over the years.

We are moving from our house today
Our home for many years
Each room is filled with memories
Of hope and joy and tears
Of children running in and out
Their voices loud and clear
Our neighbors that we grew to love
For many many years
Two poodles also shared our home
Pete and Charlie Brown
And one just plain dog called Pal
Who liked to roam around
I remember washing on the line
And Auntie baking pies
The roses nodding on the fence
And the fir tree growing high
Grandpa working in the yard
And Grandchildren standing near
These are the memories I love
And will always hold so dear

Linda at Greenfield Village in the summer of 1972.

My mother, Edna Marie Schott Parsons, went home to be with the Lord on September 13, 1998. Her earthly body is buried in Victoria Memorial Garden in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, next to my dad, my sister, Gloria, and my aunt, dad's sister, Helen.

Edna Marie Schott Parsons, 1902-1998

My Mother's Stories

Henry Ford, the man who gave the world the assembly line and the Ford Motor Company, collected buildings from all over the world and had them reassembled in a place he named "Greenfield Village" in Dearborn, Michigan.

My mother wrote an imaginative story about a young woman who wakes up to find herself in the Village after all the visitors have left and the gates are tightly locked.

My Night At Greenfield Village

It was a beautiful and sunny day. Some friends and I decided to visit Greenfield Village. We left early in the morning in order to have the whole day to roam this wonderful little village of long ago. And, roam we did, until our feet ached and our legs refused to carry us any farther.

I never could remember just how I became separated from my friends but that is just what happened, and I found myself wandering back to the gate, alone, and awfully tired.

I decided to sit down for a few minutes to rest, but just as I slipped off my shoes and settled back, I heard a gate bang shut. I suddenly realized I was locked in. I ran to the gate and called until my throat was hoarse, but no one answered. The ticket office and souvenir shop, which a few short hours before had been filled with parents and their eager laughing children, were silent and empty.

I hurried back for my shoes and sank wearily down on the grass to figure out what I should do next. I don't know how long I sat there, but I suddenly realized it was getting dark and I should find some place to spend the night.

I found a bench nestled in the bushes that seemed to offer some privacy. I rolled up my jacket for a pillow and settled down. I must have slept for an hour because when I awoke, I found the night had grown quite chilly. At that moment, my jacket ceased to be a pillow and served as a meager cover that barely kept my shoulders warm.

When one is completely worn out, sleep comes very easy. My eyes soon closed and I was fast asleep.

A bell ringing in the distance roused me out of my slumber. I sat up rubbing my eyes, hardly daring to believe what I saw. Over in the neat little white house, which was the Ford home, a lamp was lit in the kitchen window. Rubbing my eyes again to make sure I was awake, I stole another glance at the lighted window. Mrs. Ford was preparing breakfast. Smoke curled up from the chimney, and an appetizing odor wafted out to me through the open window. I could hear her soft voice calling her family to breakfast.

I glanced around. Lights were twinkling in windows all over the village. To all appearances, a community was rising to meet the care and toil of the day. A village of long ago was coming to life before my startled eyes. I caught my breath as a door banged and gentlemen, dressed in the fashion of yesterday, hurried down the path and disappeared from view.

A clock chimed again, and I realized it was Gog and Mogog in the chimes atop the jewelry store. I had noticed them as I toured the village with my friends earlier in the day.

I stole a glance at the lighted kitchen in the white cottage across the way. The family was gathered around the table, their heads bowed, while a childish voice asked the blessing.

I quietly slipped from the bench and without any urging on my part, my feet carried me out to the path. I started walking very slowly and carefully through the little village. As I passed the Ford home, they were busy eating and didn't even notice me, although by this time, it was growing somewhat lighter.

At the Wright homestead, the lamps were lit, but the shades were drawn, and I could not see who was responsible for the laughter and chatter coming from within the tidy white home. The cycle shop next to the Wright home was also lit, and the men folk had started on their day's work.

I suddenly realized I was very hungry. The air was filled with the odor of good food being cooked in the many homes in the village. I couldn't help but wonder what they would think if I should knock on one of the doors and ask to be invited in for breakfast.

I looked down at my high heeled shoes, with their open toes, and my skirt short enough to reveal plenty of silken hose. Right at that moment, I decided to forget my hunger pains for the time being. I would be completely out of place in this beautiful little village of the past.

Coming across a bench at the side of the road, partially hidden in the bushes, I decided to rest awhile. I admired the beautiful scenery around me. I noticed the covered bridge with the shining water beneath, dotted here and there with ducks out for their morning swim. Across the water the Burbank Homestead, standing sedately on the bank, finished the picture of perfection.

I was suddenly startled to hear childish voices and the sound of footsteps on the broad board planks of the bridge.

I waited breathlessly and soon, to my delight, I saw children, who seemed to be stepping right out of an old fashioned album, emerge from the bridge. Children from the past, running and shouting, anxious to reach the little one room school house. I could see in the distance other children were leaving their homes scattered around the village. I could not help wondering how all these little people, from days gone by, could fit in that small school, but they all managed to go in and suddenly, it seemed very quiet.

I decided to walk through the village again, while waiting for the gate to open. I could see the women going about their daily chores and even though I walked right by them, they didn't even seem to see me. It bothered me a little, but I decided not to worry about something I didn't understand. As I was walking through the village, I noticed some women had been busy hanging out long lines of clothes to dry in the gentle breeze. What a beautiful sight. In my world, people dry their clothes in a machine. There is no sun or breeze to make them smell fresh and clean.

At that moment, I heard the gate open, and I knew I had to leave. I had enjoyed my visit in this peaceful village. It made me feel sad, but I hurried to the gate and managed to slip out and I entered the city of today. I could see the cars speeding on the highways, smoke curling out of the huge chimneys, and planes roaring overhead. This is the world of today, and we must accept it.

I haven't been to Greenfield Village for many years, and I often wonder if I really did spend the night in the village, or if it was it just a dream. I like to think it was real.

Mother and Dad at our Wedding on December 28, 1968 in Beech Grove, Indiana.