. . . very far from the tree.
My sister sent me this message and poem that my mom wrote for her egads–over 50 years ago!
Hi there–
I was looking in a box of letters & memorabilia (including my Salutatorian speech from high school, of all things) that Mother gave me years ago, and I found this poem she wrote for me on my birthday one year. It’s so great I have to share it.
A POEM
I’ve used my best china,
Which I’ll wash–I bet.
I made you a cake
Which you already “et”
I’ve washed your clothes
And made your bed,
But please let this all
Not go to your head
Today is your birthday
But tomorrow is not,
So you’ll do your own jobs
You little–darling girl.
P.S.
In regards to your room,
I had meant to do more,
But I took one look
And made for the door.
She was so clever; I wonder if I appreciated it then?
xxoo Patti
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
That’s a lovely thing for your mum to have done. I bet your sister will treasure it. š
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I absolutely understand how you feel/felt reading this! Funny how something like this can come up and kick us in the rear, isn’t it!
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My mother and I used to write these rhyming poems together all the time–for birthdays, to send to my older sisters when they were in college, to kid my dad. For me, meter and rhyme mixed with humor was always just as simple as talking. She kept a hilarious rhymed diary as she was growing up that she used to read to us. We loved it. Before she died, she burned it!! She said it was silly and she didn’t want anyone reading it. We were devastated. It was, actually, very clever. She also used to write rhymed plays for her women’s club to present. One was called, “The Hillbilly Wedding.” Both my older sister and I did productions of it when we were in high school and my mom’s women’s club presented it at their state convention. I’m very fortunate to have had her influence.
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Oh, what a sweet poem your mom wrote for Patty. Her personality comes through–humorous, playful, and the kind of person who takes the time to do something special and individual for one of her kids. I’d give anything for my mom’s writing, but Dad said he burned it all up because it hurt him too much to look at after she died. She’d even written a funny book called Life with the O’Neals. I know this, because somehow a rejection letter about it survived.
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I know–we have two plays she wrote as well. The rest she burned. What is this with burning people’s writing? Wonder what will happen to ours, Ann?
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