The following is a poem written by Henry C. White for his mother Margaret Virginia Dunaway (1919-2015). |
River of Years
You stuck with it when there were
no such words as "lifestyles" and
"women's rights".
"Motherhood" with apple pies
and fried chicken on Sunday --
that was your bag.
Those were early ancient years
before man-made air -- and the
attic fan gave little relief
from Texas heat and you with
your dreams not yet.
Then from Houston to Mexico --
I remember long rides in the
back seat of the Desoto and
the deep green mountains with their
narrow hairpin roads as we
climbed closer to heaven
and
frequent stops in small towns and
you reading your romance books.
Nine fun months in Mexico --
every other day a holiday:
"Flag Day"
"President's Day"
"Food Day"
"Pancho Villa Day"
"Day-off Day" and
"Just for the heck of it day".
Then our return to Houston, a
small brick house on Eleanor Street --
you the cook, maid, the only
doctor in the house and nurse
without the R.N.
With your remedy for all known
diseases we received our daily
dose --
mutant children for life.
The radio, your constant companion
with Stella Dallas, Amos and
Andy, The Shadow, Fibber Magee
and Molly --
all those faded relics
of the past -- their shadows
permanently cast.
Then came the "boob tube" and you
taken hostage by the soaps and
game shows.
At last you found true meaning
in life.
Rivers of years have come and gone
with its passengers of dreams
losses, successes, children
and grandchildren and now
nothing much has changed --
as you sit there
reading your books of romance.