When I look back on my life, my earliest memories are very simple ones. I remember my mother and father, and my two brothers. I was the oldest. We were not a rich family, but we had what we needed, and we had each other.
The first place I remember living was an old farmhouse way out in the country. My father worked for his brother. They farmed with horses back then. We had no running water, no bathroom inside the house, just an outhouse. We got our water from a brook. At the time, it didn’t seem strange. It was just life. I remember riding on the wagon with my father, sitting up high while the horses pulled us along. They planted a few acres of potatoes, nothing like the big fields you see today. Life was hard work, but it was also a happy time.Later, my father began working for different people, and we moved into Mars Hill. Before that, we had lived in Robinson, a very small town. Mars Hill felt big to me. We moved into a house with lights and running water, and that felt like a great change. I started going to a larger school, and life slowly began to open up.
My parents worked very hard. They were loving and steady people. I don’t remember anything dramatic—just the sense that we were cared for. They took us to visit our grandparents, and I remember when my parents got a small car. My mother learned to drive it by practicing out in a field. Those little moments stay with me.
As the oldest, I was the boss. I bossed my brothers around, and honestly, I stayed that way most of my life. I always wanted things done right. I wanted to do my best. In school, I was active. I wanted to be a cheerleader, a majorette. And when I did something, I wanted to do it well. I didn’t know the word for it back then, but I guess I was driven.
Church was part of my childhood, though it came in stages. In Robinson, we went to a small church where everyone in town went. It didn’t matter what denomination it was—it was the community church. We had Christmas plays, and we brought our pennies for our birthdays. That’s what I remember most.
When we moved to Mars Hill, I started going to church with my grandmother at the Pentecostal church. My parents didn’t go much. Sundays were more of a rest day for them. My brothers went now and then, but mostly it was me and my grandmother. Later, when I got into high school, I began going to the Methodist church with my friends. That’s where my faith really began to take root. I didn’t come to church through pressure. I came through relationships.
I met Bob in a way I never would have expected. My uncle had passed away, and in those days, the body was brought to the home. The house was full of people. A friend came to the door and asked if I could go riding around with her and some others. I was only about fourteen or fifteen, and I was surprised when my mother said yes. Looking back, I think she just wanted me to get out of the crowded house.
Bob was sitting in the car. I barely knew him then. In fact, in school, I hadn’t paid much attention to boys at all. I was focused on school and activities. But that night changed everything. From that point on, we were a couple. There was no big dramatic moment. It just happened, and it stayed that way.
I married Bob when I was nineteen. He was twenty. He had planned to go to the University of Maine, but school wasn’t his calling. He worked with his hands. He could fix anything—engines, machines, anything around the house. His father told him he needed to do something, so Bob went to Connecticut with some friends and got a job at Pratt & Whitney. He entered a training program where he worked and learned at the same time. He stayed there for more than thirty-five years and worked his way up. He was a hard worker and a good provider.
We were married for sixty-seven years. Bob was a wonderful husband, father, and grandfather. He was easy to be with. Easy to talk to. Loving. And he had a playful side. He loved a good prank. He adored his children and grandchildren. If they wanted something—a trip, an experience—he found a way to make it happen. He showed love through action.
We didn’t start out with much. We lived in a small trailer, eight feet wide and forty feet long, with three children. Bob worked two or three jobs at a time. Slowly, we built a life. I worked in the school system for thirty years as a secretary and assistant. I loved that job. I loved the children, the parents, the community. When I retired, they held a big celebration for me. That meant more to me than I can say.
Our oldest child, Robert W (Rob), born on March 6, 1960, always took the responsibility of looking after his younger brother and sister seriously.
The hardest seasons of my life came with loss. We lost our son Brian in 1983. He was kind, quiet, and deeply loved. He was a gifted football player, a safety, with incredible instincts. He was working construction during college when a tragic accident took his life. No parent should ever have to bury a child. That kind of grief never fully leaves you.
I asked God “why” many times. I still do. I never received an answer that explained it all. But I kept believing. I kept going. Faith didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me something to hold onto when nothing made sense.
Later in life, Bob suffered with dementia. The last years were especially hard. I am still upset about how it happened. Some wounds do not heal easily. But even in that season, I was not alone. My family surrounded me with love. My daughter worked tirelessly to help me. I am deeply grateful.
Today, my joy is my family—my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. They are good to one another. They stay connected. They care. That is my greatest hope for them—that they stay family, no matter where life takes them.
If I have learned anything, it is this: work hard, be kind, and help others whenever you can. This year, I chose one word to guide me—kind. The world needs more kindness. We do not need cruel words or angry speech. We need compassion.
I hurt when I see people who are hungry, homeless, or forgotten. I wish I could help them all. Each night, I pray for peace—peace in families, peace in communities, peace among nations, and peace in the whole world. One hymn has stayed close to my heart over the years, “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” I have sung it many times, and I still carry its prayer with me. I believe peace begins with each of us, in our words, in our kindness, and in how we treat one another. That is my prayer—that peace would truly begin with us.
How would I like to be remembered? Simply this: as a kind person who tried her best, who loved her family, who helped when she could. Not as someone important, but as someone faithful.
And maybe they will remember the look. My grandchildren like to say I never had to raise my voice. I just had to give them the eye—and they knew. It wasn’t fear. It was love. They knew I cared deeply for them. That look came from years of faith and steady love. It said, I love you. I see you. I want what is best for you. If I am remembered with laughter, respect, and love, then my life has been a good one.
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