FROM THE SCRAPBOOK by Dr. Bill Randall
August 1996
I would like this month to share three poems. Poem #1 was composed by Jennier B. Heiser, 705 New Britain Ave., Hartford, Connecticut, U.S.A. This was her response to me related to an earlier item about Jersey cows. Her father, Robert Byers brought the first jerseys to Harvey. Poem #2 – Amy, about whom this poem was written, was Amy Mae Brown, born 22 June 1898 in Harvey, the daughter of Charles Lister Brown and Sarah Ann Jane Dipple Patterson. Her grandparents on her father’s side were George Brown and Alice Eleanor Messer and on her mother’s side James Patterson and Mary Swan – so one can see as the author George Maxwell expresses it so pointedly — there were genealogical confusions. Russell Moffitt born Jan. 1, 1899 son of Thomas Moffitt born May 16, 1859 and Mary Ann Wightman. Thomas’ father was Andrew M. born April 21, 1823, his mother was Jane Piercy born May 24, 1826. Poem #3 was composed by the late Jessie Hamilton Moffitt. Jessie grew up in Magaguadavic, N.B. She likely knew of family stresses.
Ode To Three Bossies
T’was spring of nineteen hundred ten I’d lived almost nine years then. My father bought a pretty farm With fertile fields and rustic chaiin
From pasture top we saw seven lakes. The land had all a good farm takes.
In Coburn, as it was called then, A part of Harvey, you will ken, My father found an ideal spot
To raise the Jerseys that he bought.
One day on the good old CPR. Two cows arrived in a cattle car. The five miles to their new abode In boxes on a wagon rode.
Edna and Melissa they were named
And now, I’ve learned, these two are famed. These Jerseys were much loved by all.
Edna with one tit too large
Melissa’s tits too small
These little flaws could hardly be detected
But they were just enough
so pure-breds were rejected.
My father, at an auction won,
And bought the two for the price one
Soon Elsa Alta came along
She had no flaws and her legs were strong
My father was meticulous
In recording details thought ridiculous In an old scribbler by lamplight
I wrote details for him each night –
Pedigree, offspring, milk, butter fat And even their weight as they grew fat
I listed journeys “down the road” Or “out behind the barn” And the resultant offspring Or maybe none – Oh darn!
I was dads helper till age fifteen When left for Boston, home of the bean Before I departed, I went on the sly And fondly kissed those beauties good-bye
Now I’m nearly ninety-five
And may be the only one alive
Who loved and milked this famous pair First pure-bred Jerseys breathing Harvey air
I’m glad my father’s dreams came true And proud I am his daughter
I loved him dearly and thoughts of him Cause my eyes to water
But my only claim to fame may be Those first Jersey cows were milked by me.
Jennie Byers Heiser June 30 1966
AMY’S PRAYER
by
George Maxwell 1980
In a house in the country one cold winter’s night
As midnight’s dark shadows were creeping
Young Amy was cuddled in bed with her doll
But neither were ready for sleeping.
She saw the pale moonlight creep in to her room
In the distance a mongrel was baying
Then silent and softly she got on her knees
And Amy began with her praying:
“Dear Father in Heaven, I plea for your help,
My head has been terribly dizzy.
My brothers can’t help me, they’re younger than I,
While mother and father are busy.
I’m asking you now, if a problem you’ll solve,
It has me so deeply affected,
You see, it’s about al my kinfolk and me,
And the many strange ways we’re connected.
Great Grandfather Messer came over the sea,
With the lovely young lassie he married.
The day of their wedding, he took his bride home,
And a Brown o’re his threshold was carried.
They had them a family of seven or eight,
Though their home wasn’t much like a palace.
Their• daughters were, Nancy and Annie and Liz,
Along with my grandmother, Alice.
And Alice was such a fair maiden you know,
She longed in her youth to go courting.
How nice it would be if she’d find a young man,
Who had a great interest in sporting.
So grandmother Alice met Grandpa George Brown,
And though it’s a little outdated,
I fret and I worry that Grandfather Brown,
And Great Grandma Messer’s related.
My grandma and grandpa liked children a lot,
They entered their lives by the dozens.
So you see I have millions of uncles and aunts,
And there just ain’t no end to my cousins.
There was old Uncle William and old Uncle Tom,
Aunt Ida, Aunt Ann, and Aunt Lizzie.
With Sterling and Stephen and Walter and Pa,
No wonder, my heads all a-tizzy.
For all of these people were married one day,
To many young maidens and misters.
Then aunts married grandfathers, cousins and such,
Two brothers were wed to two sisters.
Though some in the future when reading my poem,
Will find it completely amusing,
But I’m here to tell you the further I go,
It gets much more deep and confusing.
My grandfather Patterson married a girl,
He felt that he did as he ought’er,
Then two little boys came to carry his name,
And my mother became his fair daughter.
But Grandfather Patterson’s wife passed away,
Then Grandpa met Pa’s sister, Annie,
Who soon was Ma’s mother and sister-in-law,
Which made her my aunt and my granny.
So father became mother’s uncle that day,
And this really plagues me and bothers,
For now she was doubly related to us,
Since she was a niece of my father’s.
And now we must carry more love in our hearts,
Than a lot of folks give to their mothers,
`Cause now she’s not only a niece of my Pa,
But a cousin to me and my brothers.
Alas came another small group of young tots,
Who are parts of the Roots of my Raisin,
I know I’m a cousin and niece of them all,
And I’m close now to Carroll and Hazen.
But now I’m so certain I’m falling in love,
And this has me over a ban•ell,
For young Russell Moffitt’s the man of my dreams,
But his sister is married to Carroll.
I’m sure that it’s love and I can’t change my mind,
In my eyes I cannot see another.
So Carroll’s my cousin and step-uncle too,
And my marriage will make him my brother!
My Pa says I could have been wed to a Grieve,
Or even a Swan or a Lister,
To Russell I’m suited and we’re closely attached,
`Cause his Grandma’s my Grandma’s sister.
Please help me dear Father, one day at a time,
Then this won’t be wild and bewilder’n,
For if we can’t figure relations ourselves,
Just what will we say to our children?
They’ll know they are brothers and sisters all right,
Yet this boggling maze I’ve created,
Might stir them a bit to go back through the past,
And find other strange ways we’re related.
At times I get nervous, my head goes awhirl,
I’ll many bees seem to be swarmin’
We’re kinfolk to some in a million deep ways,
(Like our kinship to Lottie and Norman),
So fathom it our Lord, one step at a time,
Untwist all the branches, I’ve tangled,
I’ll praise you forever and ever, Amen,
If you’ll mend every branch that’s been mangled.”
The Farm
Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa,
Don’t leave the farm to me.
Though I’m the youngest, greenest branch
On our old family tree.
For it brings woe and worry too.
And trouble by the peck.
Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa,
If you would save my neck!
Don’t you remember Cousin Joe
Whose Pa left him the land,
While close relations raged around
Like hornets in the sand?
They almost stretched poor Joseph’s frame
Upon his own barn door,
Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa,
I’ve seen it all before!
Joe’s brother Sam, he left the farm
When barely past sixteen
In search of high adventure
And for pastures darker green.
But now he claims the old grey mare,
The brindle cow, the cat,
Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa,
You love me more than that.
Joe’s sister Jane, whose city mind Has now an antique turn,
Has claimed the parlor organ, The grindstone and the churn, She wants the old green rocker And the sketch of General Lee, Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa, Don’t leave the farm to me.
Then sister Sue, she calmly states, “The quilts and rugs are fine, I’ll take them with the cuckoo clock, They really should be mine.” And Tom will take the china plates, The cups, the old hall tree, Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa, Don’t leave the farm to me.
Don’t leave the farm to me, Pa,
I dare not take the chance,
For when they’ve finished up with me
I’ll scarcely own my pants.
So ship me off to Timbuctoo,
Ceylon or Hungary,
But, if you really love me, Pa,
Don’t leave the farm to me!
J.H.M.
Source: Rev. Bill Randall’s “From The Scrapbook Vol. One.”
