Transcribed by Pat Stubbs

June 29, 1950

* CAL’S COLUMN *

We come to you this week in sadness. However, in view of the levity, the nonsense and funny things of the last two or three articles, we believe that we may be indulged while we write some of the things that are in our heart.

On Nov. 16, 1902, our father and mother, Thomas Morgan (Dopher) and Marietta Ballou Gregory, became the parents of their fifth daughter. She was not a very pretty baby, but was sweet and lovable. Later years brought to her eyes that were perhaps too large, light, rather stringy, silky hair that soon went into pigtails.

One of our earliest recollections of her "little girl" life took place one cold, snowy day. We boys had a sled; or, as we called it, a slide. She wanted a ride. So some of the older children took her to a little hillside-- and we might add that our father's little farm was almost all hillside land--in our old worn-out pasture in which horses had been running a few days before and while the ground was soft from rains. They had left their tracks deep in the muddy ground and then came a hard freeze, followed later by snow which covered the ground about an inch or two deep. The happy little girl was pulled up the hill and then the down trip began. After some speed had been attained, one runner of the sled struck the hard frozen part of a horse's track; or, rather, that part left standing by a deep footprint in the ground, and the sled stopped so suddenly that our sister, Anna, was thrown from the sled with force enough to hurl her against the frozen ground She received a cut over one eye and the would bled profusely. We carried her to the house and our mother, poor, hard-working, patient and kind "mammy," as we called her, dressed the wound. She was also quite angry with the older children, who, she thought, were to blame for the accident, which was to leave a scar over one eye, that remained with her as long as life lasted. Our mamy faulted the others severely for the accident, which she said, "may leave my child with a scar through life." When Cal looked into the face of his sister Sunday afternoon, June 25th, for the last time, that scar of more than forty years ago, was still there. But there will be no scars in the resurrection, we feel sure.

In 1907, Cal went away to school in Bowling Green. Anna was then five years old. Somehow, and we do not know how, she got the idea that she would have to go away to school in Bowling Green. One day our mother, "Mammy, " to Cal, found her weeping bitterly. "What's the matter?" asked her mother. "I

don't want to go to Bolton Green,"replied Anna as she shook with sobs. She could not say Bowling Green, but used the word above given.

Many were the incidents of her early childhood that have come down through the years, riding, as it were, on the wings of memory. She believed all that was told her and this is part of the trusting innocence of little girlhood. One member of the family apparently took a delight in "tormenting" her and others. He once told her that if she ever put a boy's hat or cap on her head, she would turn into a boy. She believed this implicitly. After thus preparing the way, the party who found such a delight in picking at others, then made as if he would place a cap or hat on her head. Such furious efforts as the child made, such crying and squalling as she put forth were perhaps funny to the "tormentor," who had finally to be called down by a parent; but today long years later and with Anna in a rather early grave, they bring regrets and in a measure, shame.

On another occasion she was told by the same party that if she ever let her teeth bump together, all of the teeth would come out. She believed this with all the confidence of the trusting child she was. Shortly afterward, our mammy found her in a flood of tears and naturally she asked, "Now what is the matter?" The child replied, "I bumped my teeth together." Mammy replied, "You goosey thing, that will not amount to anything." but she knew that somebody had been playing with her credulity and had made her believe this.

Somewhere there is a picture of the entire group of girls made many years ago. The boys, Cal and Tom, refused to have anything to do with this picture, esteeming ourselves to be "too good" perhaps to have a part in the picture. Here Anna appears a very little girl, with big eye and the thin, silky hair and perhaps rather large mouth of earlier days. We are sorry now that we did not have a part in the picture and feel rather ashamed that we thought ourselves above being in the group.

In her school days she soon showed signs of being keen of mind, alert in thought and possessed of a good memory. She was an obedient child, good to all and seldon ever having a hard thought toward any other person. In school her grades were excellent and she did good work, the teacher, so far as we know, having not one bit of trouble with her. In later school days she became quite adept in spelling, being the most naturally gifted speller we ever knew. Apparently she "spelled" without having to even think, the letters in correct order rushing form her lips as water over stones in the valley. Her early school days were, in some respects, the happiest of her entire life. Her father and mother were living and active, all her brothers and sisters were well and healthy, she had a large group with whom she could play and she did delight in playing the games of little girls forty years ago. During this period of time, Mrs. Nora Wilburn, a widowed cousin of our father, moved to the little log house across the road from our father's home. She had one son, Paul Wilburn, who died last fall. Here the widowed mother and son lived in their little log house. One of Anna's delights was to visit that home and stay until she had to be called back home. Our mammy found that Anna was asking for food from Mrs. Wilburn, who was having a hard time and mammy felt that Anna did not need to ask for food, for we were all well fed. Finally, in a rather exasperated state of mind, Anna's mother said, "Anna, if I ever hear of your asking Nora for anything else to eat, I am going to whip you." Anna knew that these words were meant and that they would be kept. But she was smart enough to get around her mother's prohibition. So instead of asking Nora for food, she said, "Nora, we did not have anything hardly for breakfast this morning." This bought results and our mammy did not punish her for this sign of shrewdness. Anna was then perhaps six years old. About the same time, Nora had told Anna and other sisters of ours to keep her eggs gathered up while she was away from home on a visit. On her return, Anna said, "Nora, your old hens and roosters have laid lots of eggs since your left home." This gave Mrs. Wilburn a laugh that she remembered until she went home to God not many months ago. We somehow find some sort of consolation in the thought that the little girl of 40 years ago and the lonely, widowed mother of a small orphaned boy, are together now in a fairer and better land, where sin and sorrow and trials and tribulations come never more.

Lack of space forbids publishing all we have along this line in this week's paper, so it will be concluded in a later issue, God willing. We hope that our readers will not feel that we are being silly or over-centimental, but our heart is heavy. After the death of our parents, Anna came into Cal's home and we gave her the care and love of a daughter. And she was as a daughter to the writer. So our sorrow is great today in the homegoing of the once happy child, who laughed and played through childhood's brief morning and then in later life, went suddenly from those she loved best of all.