My mom's full name was Irene Cornelia Lazenby Gillum. She had a very hard life, but always made the most of it. She always had a full breakfast, and I mean full, ready before daylight. After the breakfast dishes were washed, she always swept the whole house. Then she made all the beds, worked a little in the garden, in season, then started a big dinner (lunch). She might have a few minutes to rest after the dinner dishes; then she would often head to the truck patch to hoe weeds awhile; then it was time to start supper. In between times, she was raising 6 babies. She always had time to give to us though. She made all our shirts, dresses, etc., from chicken feed or flour sacks. In the winter time, she would make quilts.
We always were in church on Sunday, and we had a giant bible picture book. She saw to it we memorized every story. Everyone in Wing and Rover loved her. The old church at Wing once had been a school house upstairs, but the stairway had long since been removed. Sammy and I managed to climb up there one Sunday after services. We found a big rattlesnake on the way up, and when we got to the top, the chalk board still had Leta Lazenby, mom's sisters, name on it. Leta had left Wing decades before.
Mom, and some of the girls and I, would spend all day once a week washing clothes the hard way, hung them all out to dry, and get them in by dark. On another day, all the clothes that needed it were ironed with flatirons, which had to be heated on the stove. Despite all the hard work, I could not have asked for a sweeter mother. She would always pass up buying anything for herself, choosing to spend any extra money on us. She would tell me, “Well, I'll buy this for you now, and when I'm old and you are well off, you can buy things for me.” Sadly, she passed away at sixty-eight, and that time had not arrived yet.
Uncle Franz passed by our house nearly every day, going to check his cows. But I knew he would usually wind up at the river, fishing. He loved to fish. I often wound up down there with him, and rode out on the back of his tractor. I loved to talk to him. He was so wise. Time spent with him was never dull. This poem, by him, tells how he felt about fishing better that I ever could.
WHERE I'D LOVE TO GO
By the side of the roaring river
Up where the blue waters flow
Under the shade of the leaves that quiver
There's where I'd love to go.
With my cane, hook, and minnow to lure
I would look for the cork not to show
When I landed a big one I'd be sure ‘tis skill
That’s where I'd love to go.
Where the cares of life are smothered
By the thoughts of another to show
From out of his hiding uncovered
That's where I'd love to go.
As he flounced to shore by my tugging
‘Mid the waves where the blue waters flow
And to land him requires such tugging
That's where I'd love to go.
When the season is right for fishing
And duties are not pressing so
I'll do more about it than wishing
I'll go where I'd love to go.
I'll smile o'er the roaring blue water
At his nibble down below
Then stand up on my trotters
At the spot where I'd love to go.
But for now, I must only imagine
What a thrill to experience such show.
Maybe someday I'll crank up the wagon
And stop where I'd love to go.
By F. M. Gillum
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