ROW

Here is an inspiring poem that my grandmother, Honey, wrote.  Her real name was Beulah, but we called her Honey.  The oldest of the cousins thought that was her name because that's what our granddaddy called her.

Row

When there's no breeze, row.

Bend to your oars and go.

Look up, not down

With never a frown

For the man with a smile

Wins the race worthwhile.

So, row, man, row.

I just heard a few minutes ago, that the lady who lived across the hall from my mom at the nursing home, died this morning.  Her daughter and I became very close while visiting our moms.  She had had a stroke and couldn't really move her body much, and could only speak very quietly.  But, she was so very sweet. Her children were very devoted to her.  The daughter I became close to was there every day.