BY-WAYS -8/28/41 - Teacher Marjorie Lemon. Mrs. John V. Wilcox
|There is a young blonde from Montana - ||She sings a high lyric soprana,|
|Or is it from tropic Havana? - ||The while she plays on the piana. |
|Oh, no, by the creek Loyalhanna, || Her favorite flower is the canna;|
|Who thinks that the tropic banana ||She wears a white knitted bandana,|
|Is surely that heaven-sent manna. ||To teach Stewart's School - Loyalhanna.|
|She brushes her teeth with Ipana;
All of which is a silly jingle about a serious young lady, visiting us, who has a way of deputizing the whole family, and even the little neighbor girls, to help her get material ready for this year's school. Chairs made out of orange crates, painted Chinese red; flash cards, that are a fine aid in learning arithmetic; letter squares, that will keep little folks usefully busy for hours. Stencils, cut-outs, all kinds of busy work will surely keep those children happily occupied this winter. Please forgive me for talking about my niece, Marjorie Lemon, who isn't my niece at all - only a second cousin - but my heart's delight. Her enthusiasm about teaching is contagious. You see, I just write about what is uppermost in my mind - and how can I concentrate on anything else with that Chinese red before me? (Marjorie is 24 miles away - at Cleveland Airport - while I write this, so there can be no censorship).
Last week the column overflowed before I had a chance to say what was in my heart - about hills, about climbing to the heights, and finding God there. To go back to the hills of southern Ohio for a moment, wasn't it a wonderful thing for a busy doctor, tired from the day's constant demands, to take us to the spot where we could drink in the glory of one of God's sunsets? This man, one of the busiest imaginable, somehow finds time to take his wife and boys to see the wonders of nature in woods and fields and hills. Always near home; he hasn't had a vacation in years - unless new courses at Columbus can be called such; or serving on the State Medical Board. I have marvelled at his physical endurance and spiritual strength; but I know now that he gathers daily help from his communion with Nature - which is God. We cannot remain on hilltops - the hills that are made of earth and rock. But it is possible to climb spiritual hills. Right here I would like to pay tribute to a dear friend who is facing the sunset of life. She gets all the beauty of the sunset, because she stays up on a spiritual hill. For years she has been far from well - and often very ill - no longer able to "climb the hills." But what a lift I got from my brief visit with her a little over a week ago! She was lying on her couch. But no word of complaint. She was too busy exulting over her church "going over the top." Because she was "flat on her back," she could not attend the Centennial of the Saltsburg Methodist church. But that didn't matter so much to her. All she cares about is the fact that her beloved church is clear of all debt, and is in a fine way to continue indefinitely as a power for good in the community. Many of you have already guessed whom I am referring to - for she has been one of the guiding spirits of that church for at least forty years. I note that in 1901 the Ladies' Aid Society was revived under her presidency, and that the Society pledged and paid off $500 toward reduction of the church mortgage. During the winter 1916-17, when I was first privileged to live in the Wilcox home, I had first-hand knowledge of her devotion to her church and to her Maker. Yes, Mrs. John V. Wilcox, you have been more of a power for good than you will ever know. You and Daddy Wilcox were like real parents to me that winter. The many acts of kindness still stand out like bright jewels in the mosaic of life. I meant to write a real nice piece about you for your wedding anniversary. This piece is all jerky and incomplete, and not near the anniversary. But I know you will accept it as a simple gift, right from the heart. May God bless you both in the sunset of life.
Florence B. Taylor
Next -9/4/41 - Some Carry the Banner