"Barbara Ann, I've Come To Play"

For a number of years I've been staying in touch with my mom by calling home every Saturday at 8:00 a.m. During this year of isolation, it's been especially meaningful. Usually we just catch up on current events, but this past month I began asking her to tell me stories about her life, like the ones she told me when I was little such as her prize winning calf at the County Fair and the time her dog Bob got bit on the nose by copperheads. 

Mom grew up in rural West Virginia in a town called Highland, moving with the family up to Warren, Ohio when she turned 12. My grandmother, an avid reader and self-taught artist, wrote poetry much of her life, influenced by a great uncle who was known as "the blind poet of Ritchie County." 

One of the poems that my grandmother wrote was called "Barbara Ann, I've Come to Play." Here's the backstory, which I learned only this past weekend, and then the poem. It's a poem about a little girl named Libby. Ruth.

The story of Libby Ruth
At the time that my grandmother was pregnant with Mom, my grandmother's sister-in-law Alice (married to my grandfather's brother Harl) was pregnant at the same time. Aunt Blanche was trying to get pregnant at the same time as well, and the three were all hoping for girls. My grandparents already had two boys, so a little girl was on the wish list this time around.

As it turns out, Alice and my grandmother delivered girls, one being my mother Barbara Ann, and the other Libby Ruth. (Blanche eventually adopted a girl named Jane.) 

Libby Ruth and my mom used to play together when they were very little. When Libby Ruth came over she’d say, “Barbara Ann! I’ve come to play.”

When Libby Ruth was four a tragic accident occurred. She had gone to the bathroom and somehow her nightgown caught fire and she died. 

Grandma wrote a poem about this terrible tragedy titled “Barbara Ann I’ve Come to Play.”

The poem is about Libby after she died and she was now an angel. Heartbroken, Aunt Alice was never the same after that. She’d always been so happy up till then.

Here is the poem my grandmother wrote.

“Barbara Ann, I’ve Come to Play”

Little girl with eyes so brown

Always dancing all around

Here and there about the town

And when she came our way

She’d always call so gay,

“Barbara Ann, I’ve come to play.”

What a glorious time they had.

We were always very glad

From Joanne clear on up to Dad

When a car came out our way

And we’d hear a clear voice say,

“Barbara Ann, I’ve come to play.”

Dear little Libby, so very dear,

An angel in heaven without a peer

Your sweet voice ringing in my ear;

How very sweet would be the day

When you would cry in your own sweet way,

“Barbara Ann, I’ve come to play.”

* * * *

As many of you know, my interest in poetry was stimulated by my grandmother. I remember a big fat volume of Ogden Nash poems that I sometimes enjoyed reading when visiting her. Her diaries are full of verse. Late in life some of her poems were collected in a volume called Helping the Sun Grow. Others were contributed to other poetry collections. This one, untitled, sums up her attitude toward these personal scribblings.

If you read between the lines

That herein I indite,

You’ll find a picture of my life

At morning, noon, and night.

If you find a word ill-used

Or yet a clumsy phrase,

Remember, I only write for fun

And not for fulsome praise.

--Elizabeth Sandy

For more, visit:

https://ennyman.com/p-sandy.html

Things My Mother Used to Say

Self-Portrait. Mexico, 1981

This week I've been thinking a lot about how to end racism, probably like a lot of people these past few weeks. I don't think any reasonable person is desirous to see the recent tensions remaining as something we "just have to live with." (Perhaps this is, in part, what so moved me about the film about Mr. Rogers that I'd watched yesterday.)

While reflecting on these things, something my mother used to say came to mind.

"A man convinced against his will
is of the same opinion still."

The saying was made famous by Dale Carnegie, though its apparent origin is from the pen of Mary Wollstonecraft, early British feminist and mother of Mary Shelley the famous author of Frankenstein.

Racism has to end. It's bad for all races. But the how of it is going to be the thornier problem. This saying gives a glimpse of the kinds of tactics that won't work.

* * * *

Thinking about this led me to recall a couple other things Mom said when I was growing up. Here's a second.

"Oh what a tangled web we weave
when first we practice to deceive."

If you always tell the truth, it's less likely to get you tripped up under cross-examination.

* * * *

A third saying that came to mind was this one: "Boys will be boys." My mom had four of them and she would know. (We had no sisters.) But when I talked with her this morning, she gave it a quite different spin.

"People would say, 'Girls are different from boys,' and I would say, 'Boys are different from boys.' All four of you were different." 

This was an interesting observation, and very true. Each us were very different in many respects, though I've oft observed that I share common traits with each of my brothers.

* * * *

A trait that I share with my mother is an appreciation of poetry. I'd always assumed I gained my fondness for reading and writing poetry through my grandmother, who likewise wrote poems and had been influenced by an uncle who wrote poetry, John Hall, the blind poet of Ritchie County. But as I thought on the sayings above with their poetic qualities, I realized that my attraction to verse was closer to home.

This morning she told me that when she was in high school she got extra credit for memorizing poetry. "So I memorized a lot of poetry," she says. "I bought 101 Famous Poems and liked to read Robert Burns."

One of the poems she remembered from her high school days was a pre-Civil War poem about how terrible it was see Negroes chained up and being sold. It evidently made such an impression on her that she remembers it 75 years later.

* * * *

Mom said she liked to quote Ogden Nash sometimes.  I recall a big fat book of Ogden Nash poems on my grandmother's bookshelf in her living room. (Instead of wainscoating, Grandma had bookshelves along some of the walls.) Nash wrote pithy short verses like these.

The Camel
The camel has a single hump;
The dromedary, two;
Or else the other way around.
I’m never sure. Are you?


A Word to Husbands
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.

I wish I'd memorized this last when I when I was younger.

* * * *