By Norma Sturgeon
There’s a little church where we used to go.
You may recall, it was St. Joe.
Hard Scrabble, was a nickname,
It wasn’t famous, nor held no fame.
Our mom and dad, always faithful and true,
For miles they walked, the best they could do.
With Harold, Richard, Jean, Norma and Linda too,
We went to Church, Fountain Ferry and Zoo.
The fast kind of life was not their goal.
Memories of the Holler was all they wanted to know,
For Sunday dinners the preachers came,
One or another, didn’t matter their name.
They loved us kids and let it show,
Well never forget, we’ll always know.
As the years have rolled by with kids of our own,
We miss them more; we miss going home.
Mom and dad, now we’ve laid you to rest.
We have no doubts, you did your best.
When we are gone, if our kids say the same,
Then your goal in life has not been in vain.
Wickliffe Cemetery, is only a place,
But as we pass by, we remember your face,
And we realize St. Joe was only a path,
Only in memory can we ever go back.
You are now a star that shines on this land,
And you’ve earned your place in the Angel Band.
Christmas Eve is another memory We forgot to tell you how we cared,
Now we would give anything, if only you could be there.
In Uncle Jake’s Home, we spend Christmas Eve.
But this we remember, each year when we leave,
The foundation you built for us was made out of stone,
Your love and memories will always follow us home.
Written by Norma Sturgeonand
Submitted by Debbie Oxley of Eckerty, Indiana.
Published in U S Legacies Magazine March 2005