Because of those obituaries and funeral cards

 During the 2020 pandemic, it has actually been a blessing to have some time on my hands to get some much needed backlog work done. One of those items has been nagging me in the back of my mind for several years.

A box filled with obituaries and funeral cards given to me by my Aunt Betty Jones Stevens. Aunt Betty was married to my mom's youngest brother Richard.

Aunt Betty Jones Stevens b1936 d2017

Aunt Betty knew that all of us girls were interested in that "genealogy stuff", and that the majority of our family members from the mid-1800s until now lived in parts of eastern Kentucky. 

Richard Stevens b1931 d2015

Her husband, my Uncle Dick knew everybody in the county, and if he didn't know them, he knew their brother. His knowledge reached to the surrounding counties, too. In his later years, he went to every funeral he could to console the grieving and pick up a funeral card for us. He also took a fork with him and kept it in his pocket, just in case there was an invitation for the funeral meal. There usually was.

The box of obituaries and funeral cards that Aunt Betty collected for us during the years.

These funeral cards have sat on a shelf in my office for several years - probably pre-2016. The few I saw on top I knew I already had in my possession, for I had likely attended the funeral or had inherited them from my parents.

But, she collected them all, recalling some of the surnames she had heard us mention through the years.

About a month ago I began to photograph and/or scan these items into a folder of "Misc. Families" on my computer. It was then that I thought that I could and should do something more with them.

So, enter FamilySearch.org.

One by one I began to look them up. First, I checked my own database. Second, I began to look on FamilySearch. Under the Memories section, I uploaded the scans to Documents.

That's all that I did. I didn't enter information. I didn't tag anyone. 

I simply uploaded the scans for their family to find someday.

Here is an example of one of them. I am not related to this man - but, someone is.

I absolutely love the information that has been included on this tiny funeral card, and have rethought what may be included on the ones Kerry and I will design for our own funerals. Just look at all of that information on the centerfold!

I also uploaded obituaries and funeral cards I had collected from family, personal friends, church friends, and friends through Boy Scouts. Again, I add no information other than the scan.

So, as of this morning I have added nearly 300 obituaries, and still have half a box that I need to work on. I am keeping the ones who are family members and throwing the rest away.

Out of all of those people, there have only been two I haven't been able to find on FamilySearch. 

So, rather than sit around and wring my hands over a virus I can't do anything about, I have put my time to good use. And perhaps there will be someone, someday who will be glad that I uploaded those scans.

Gratitude Day #5 - Dad - November 2017

Today I am grateful for the father that I had.

Dad was a hillbilly boy, raised in the hills and hollers of eastern Kentucky.  He only went to 8th grade, and spent three years in fourth grade.  But, some of the greatest lessons I ever learned came from an uneducated man.

Dad was the fifth child born out of eleven children, just like Mr. Kerry.  By the time he was born, one of his older brothers had already succumbed to whooping cough.  The sister born right after him died at age three when a pot of beans cooking on a pot-bellied stove fell on her and burned her badly.  She had been sitting on her big sister's lap and they were rocking away in a rocking chair, pushing off on the stove.  It was enough to rock the beans each time to the edge of the stove.  It took her three days to die.

Dad valued education, though he had but little.  He always said he went to college, something that I scoffed at -- until I went to Berea College in Kentucky and learned that he had been enrolled there for seven months.  A few months later he married my mom.

Dad was a coal miner, a sailor at Pearl Harbor, manager of a Pepsi-Cola bottling plant, a donut maker, a maintenance worker at Westinghouse, and owned his own refrigeration/air conditioning business.  

He was also an engineer.  The best wheat grinder I've ever had is one he built out of two burr stones, a washing machine motor from the dump, plywood, and a long funnel.

Dad was a boy when the Battle of Blair Mountain took place in West Virginia.  He was only six years old.  Here is a quote from his journal:

"As well as I remember we lived there about one year or more before trouble started, the union was trying to organize the coal fields and the coal companies didn’t want that to happen and there was fighting all around, the union men were coming over Blair Mountain into Logan County and all who would not join the union were called red necks and my uncle Arthur Fitzpatrick, a big Irishman who had just gotten out of the army in 1918 and he was tough but they arrested him because marshal law had been declared and him and me started to walk to Logan about four miles away and a deputy sheriff inquired where we was going and he told him it was none of his business and he arrested him, and he handed me his big 45 army colt and he told me not to let anyone take it from me and I took it back to my aunt Etta Bee and gave it to her and they blackballed him out of Logan County and never would let him come back, it was not easy living under marshal law but we did it for about two years or more.

During the war between the union and non union there were many people killed on Blair mountain, the sheriff of Logan county and some of his deputies was killed and many coal miners went to work and never returned.

The army moved heavy artillery right by our house by mule team and we could hear the heavy artillery being fired from our home, nothing looked good at all for along time but we finally come out all together."

(When the tv special aired, I wrote to them and told them I had a first-hand account my father had written.  They asked if they could use it on their site, and I gladly shared it with them."

In West Virginia, mom and my three sisters joined the LDS Church -- a brave act for a woman going against the wishes of her husband in 1948.  Dad wanted nothing to do with it.

He later made a trip to Ohio for three reasons:
1.  To look for better employment.
2.  To ensure better education for my three sisters.
3.  To scope out and make sure there was no Mormon Church.

He moved the family up during a blizzard on New Year's Day in 1950.  In April, two missionaries knocked on my mom's door.  The area had just been opened up.

Two years later dad was baptized.  I came along three years later.  He was bishop of the local congregation when I was baptized.

I was my dad's "boy".  He taught me how to fish, how to hunt, and how to build things.  I went along with him on service calls, where I learned something very important:

"Don't ever be afraid to take something apart to see why it's not working right.  Then, put it back together the right way and trust it."

I have applied that sage advice in all areas of my life -- my family life, my genealogy research, and my own self.

It's okay to take segments of your life apart, so you can have the experience of reassembling it and making it work right.



I miss my dad.  I had him longer than I had my mom.  But, both made profound influences in my life.  I wouldn't be who I am today if it weren't for them.

They taught me commitment.  If you say you're going to do something, do it.  Be the type of person no one ever has to worry about when you've said yes.

They taught me by example to never waver.  When they joined the LDS Church, they jumped in with both feet and never looked back, never went inactive, and were faithful followers all of their lives.


They taught me to love and know God, and trust in Him.  I can vividly recall my parents on their knees in gratitude, and asking Him to bless their children and grandchildren.

My two uneducated parents immersed themselves in the scriptures, and always had a book in their hands.  I still struggle understanding Isaiah and Revelation, books they clearly understood.

I couldn't have asked for better parents.  They did the best they could at their age to raise a squirrely little girl.  And, they taught me nothing wrong.

I hope with all of my heart I have made them proud of me.

Love you, Dad...

It's Only a Little Cup and Saucer

My maternal grandmother was the one I knew the best.

Bertha Agnes Gearheart Stevens, wife of Corbitt Sullivan Stevens

Each year in October, my parents and I made the trip to Kentucky to bring her back to Ohio for the winter. 

My mom was afraid for her mom, for she still heated her house with a coal stove, 

which meant going out back with a coal bucket

during the ice and snow.

She was always ready to go back home in March,

for it was plantin' time.

But, several years before we began to plan for her winter stay, we made trips to visit both her and my grandfather.

Once, during an extremely hot summer visit, 

we had gone "cemeteryin'".

The older folks knew where every one of their kin was buried.

We were so thirsty for something cool to eat or drink,

so we decided to stop at Raybourn's General Store.

It has since burned down. 

But, you could buy just about anything you would ever need...

from overalls, to foodstuffs, to farm implements.

That included fudgcicles.  

The four of us sat in the car slurping away on our fudgcicles 

when "Mawmaw" took me by my eight-year old hand and took me back into the store.

I was just a bit younger than eight in this photo.

There, she proceeded to buy me the prettiest little 

flowered cup and saucer.

It was one of the few things I ever received from her.

I have grown up,

moved several times,

and raised four children...

and that little cup and saucer has survived it all.

The original cup and saucer are on the left,

but through the years I have found a few more plates that 

resemble the same pattern.

I guess that little cup and saucer 

would be considered antiques today.

I'm not sure anyone in my family 

will ever want this or appreciate its story.

It may end up at Goodwill...

But, it's little story is preserved here.

And, this is probably why I love and admire dishes 

to this day.

I will stop dead in my tracks when I see lovely old dishes.

Now, I remember why.

Walkin' the Floor

Most of my ancestors are from eastern Kentucky.

It is part of Appalachia (apple-atcha).

Though some came from the Tidewater region of both Virginia and North Carolina, most came in through the Philadelphia, PA area, settling in Germantown, before coming down the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with thousands of Germans and Scots-Irish.

And, they are a force to be reckoned with.

My mother used to recount a "legend" to us.  

She said that her father's grandfather, Robert H. Stephens, had his body dug up, and the skeleton hung in Doc Brown's office.  He had assembled the skeleton together to prove he was a doctor.

Others could recall a story where a "hand" floated up to the top of a cauldron of water in the woods near a cemetery, and that Robert Stephens' grave had been dug up.

My line would be as follows:

Ida Stevens --> Corb Stevens --> Richard Stephens --> Robert Stephens

I repeat, these are legends that have been passed down through the family.

One day, while visiting my mother's last living sibling, we got around to the subject of Robert.

I asked him if he thought it was true.

He honestly didn't know.

But, he did say a picture of Robert had been found, and that if I wanted to see it, just go "up the road a piece" to Loreada's house.

If she doesn't answer, just peek through the front door window.  The picture is hanging on the opposite wall.

This is Kentucky.  

It's not wise to go peeking in through someone's window.

But, I thought it was worth the effort, so Mr. Kerry and our four children piled into the van and drove "up the road a piece" to Loreada's.

I told them to wait in the van.

I always do.

I knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

I knocked again.

There was no answer.

So, I gave in and peeked through the door.

And, a set of eyes were peeking right back at me!

I thought I might wake up dead.

Once she focused in on me, she exclaimed, "Law, it's Ida's girl!  Get yourself on in here!!"

As I have mentioned before, things move at a slower speed in the south.

You have to move at that speed, or people may be suspicious of you.

I asked how she knew me, and she said she would have recognized me anywhere, for I looked just like Ida - her childhood playmate and cousin.

And, she looked just like Ida, my mom.

We talked for quite awhile, and she told me about some research she had done on the family.

Then, I asked her about the picture.

She went and got it, and I was absolutely astounded.

Loreada holding the picture of Robert Stephens

Robert's grandson, Corb - my grandfather.

She didn't mind me taking lots of pictures of the picture.  I had an old Vivitar point and shoot, so I carefully laid it outside in natural lighting and took pictures from every angle I could.  This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me, so I had to get it right.

Then, I asked her how in the world she had obtained it.

She said the people up the holler from her had been tearing up their flooring and found it there.

(Note:  Many times, people would use newspapers, magazines, and I guess, photos, to help insulate walls and floors)

Mr. Kerry asked me, "So, were they singing, 'I'm Walkin' the Floor Over You"?

Smart aleck.

Now, the legend of his skeleton will probably remain a mystery.

Although, while visiting my uncle a few years later, he received a phone call asking if he wanted Robert.  I was only half-listening.

He said to hang on, for Peggy's here and I'll ask her.

Someone was cleaning out a closet of an old building downtown and had found pieces of what they thought were a skeleton.

Did I want them?

No.

An emphatic NO.

I have enough skeletons in my closet.

Please, please bury them.

And, let whoever it is rest in peace.

Standing where Levi stood

My mother's great-grandfather's name was Levi Wheeler Cline, who lived most of his life in Elliott Co., Kentucky.  Though my mother was only two years old when he died, she can still recount the stories her father told of growing up with Levi and his wife, Alcie [Ailsey, Alice], who had died four years earlier.

There are three men named Levi Wheeler Cline in the area of Elliott Co., Kentucky.  Whether this is our Levi or not is not yet determined.

Several years ago, my sisters and I, along with our Aunt Betty, decided to visit the cemetery where Levi and Alcie are buried, and to see if there were any tombstones we had missed.  We had been to the same cemetery years earlier, but parts of it were overgrown.

I discovered the tombstone of my mother's grandmother, who died just eight years after her young husband, Richard Stephens, leaving four young boys.  Her parents, Levi and Alcie would end up raising those boys, plus another one she had when she remarried.

This picture of Richard Stephens and Ida Mae Cline was taken through the glass, and still hangs in my aunt and uncle's home.

Levi's stone is there, but I couldn't find Alcie's anywhere.  Notice the Masonic symbol on his gravestone.

So, on this trip I took with my sisters and my aunt, I decided it might be good to see if his house was still remaining.  We were certainly close to the property, and my aunt believed if we went in a certain direction we may just happen upon it.

It involved driving across a field

And, across that field came two men in a pick-up truck, complete with deer hooves on the back window and shotguns.

"Whatchall doing down here?"

My sisters froze.  My aunt stayed quiet.

In my best Kentucky twang, I told them were were looking for my Mama's family, and asked what their Mama's name was.

After a bit more talking, they took us over a hill to a run-down house that they declared was indeed Levi Wheeler Cline's house that he had built with his own hands.

I was standing on property that belonged to my great-grandfather that he had built with his own hands.  Try to look past the condition of it now, and look at what type of home it would have been then.

I am just fascinated at the work it took to saw those logs and chink them against winter's chill.

One of the "good ol' boys" asked if I would like to go inside.  Sure!!  Then, he went back to the pick-up truck, reached under the seat, grabbed a pistol, and said, "Come on!"

Okay, now wait a minute.  If you're getting your pistol, I'm getting mine.  He said to me not to worry, that it was just for copperheads.  That's fine.  Here's my camera.

He came back out with a brick that was from his hand-built fireplace!!!

I feel very strongly about being able to stand where our ancestors stood, looking at the same hills and skies that they did.  The trees were probably not the same ones, but everything else was, including the cemetery.

Become proficient in land records, so you can do the same!

At Home in a Cemetery
I have always felt at home in a cemetery.

I was in cemeteries before I was born.  My parents took me to cemeteries when they were doing indexing for the Ohio Genealogical Society.  While all of my friends were in movie theaters and on the beach on Sunday afternoon, I was in a cemetery with my parents.

I was born into an older family and everyone was dying when I was young, I went to funerals and cemeteries.  I feel quite at home in a cemetery, thinking of the many times a family has paid their last respects to a loved one.

I've also had some interesting experiences in cemeteries.  Two stand out.

I must have been about 12 or 13 years old.  It was Sunday afternoon, and we were off to another cemetery.  I had talked my best friend, Palm Tree (Alice) into going.  One of mom and dad's friends, Brother Steele (who never spoke) also came along.

Mom wore a wig.

We were all in various corners, with Alice and I hanging together writing on our index cards.  Mom was down on her knees pulling weeds from a tombstone that had sunken into the ground.  The information she needed was below the level of the grass and the ground, so she had a job to do.

Then, she came face to face with a snake!

She jumped up and started doing this warhoop thing that mortified Alice and I.  I was SO embarrassed.  Dad saw what was going on and came running across the grass with a stiff wire brush.  (Never, ever use those now!!)  He saw the snake and started beating it like that Fat Broad in the comic strip B.C.      But, the ends of those bristles are extremely sharp, and during the first strike, the snake got stuck in the bristles.  When he saw what had happened, he slung the snake straight up in the air.

That's when my mother looked up and saw the snake coming straight down for her, head over tail.

Mom ran out from under her wig.

Alice and I just wagged our heads.  Brother Steele was trying to hold his face together to keep from laughing.  I wanted to tell him to just go ahead and bust out and laugh, but I didn't.  Oh, well.

The second incident directly involves me.

I had a broken foot once again.  I was heavy.  I was unstable.  I was in a cemetery.

Ferne and Betty and I were in a Kentucky cemetery, which could be anywhere - soggy bottomland, mountains, backwoods properties, high grass, old stones, etc.  You name it - we've been there.

We were looking through a familiar cemetery once again to make sure we had all stones recorded.  The three of us were scattered around, with me over closest to the top ridge of the burying ground.  It was high up on a hill.  (People were buried high up so the floods wouldn't get the graves saturated)

I was copying the information from a tombstone that looked a little bit like the Washington Monument.  It was on the crest of the hill, and there were names on all four sides.  I kept wondering if these people were buried in a pinwheel.

I had a walking cast on that looked like a "moon boot".  It was solid and didn't bend much.  As I'm walking around all four sides of the tombstone, I hung on to it to keep my balance.  Suddenly, it toppled.  I grabbed on to it so it wouldn't break further, and cradled it in my arms.  I also lost my footing, fell, and began rolling down the side of the hill - hollering the whole time.  A true genealogist.

My sisters heard me, but couldn't see me.  When they finally saw where I had landed, they stood on the hill above me, dumbfounded.  The first thing out of Betty's mouth was, "Good night!  Is the tombstone alright?"

Yeah.  It was alright.  So was I, in case anyone was wondering...

Nope!  Don't ever use these!

Craving Chicken

Tonight, I'm missing my dad.  

Or, maybe I'm just hungry for chicken.

In his later years, people said that my father reminded them of Colonel Harland Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken Fame.  They were both from Kentucky, and had that same twinkle in their eyes.  Sometimes, my dad would grow a goatee, just like Colonel Sanders.  That really clinched the look!

It would be great to enjoy a piece of the Colonel's chicken tonight, but a nice talk with my dad would be even better.

Someday...

Women's History Month - #10

March 10 — What role did religion play in your family? How did your female ancestors practice their faith? If they did not, why didn’t they? Did you have any female ancestors who served their churches in some capacity?

I don't believe religion played a big part in too many of my ancestors' lives.  My sisters have told me that they did go to a few churches when they were growing up in both Kentucky and West Virginia.  Mom did mind them going, but she drew the line when it came to visiting a snake handling church.  That was off-limits in her book.

Again, I quote from mom's journal:

"So now I have grown older now and have started to go too church by my self and  with neighbors to the church nowon as the Jesus only church.  And there where I met my husband to be I was 16 year old when I met him we all went to church at the same place he was baptized at one time in the Jesus only church before we were married my mom & dad didn’t wants us to get married for I was the only girl at time that had and very younge I had several girls friends and was very happy Just staying at home and helping my mother with house work."

Church was a place for socializing.  It was a place to commit oneself to the Lord. But, mom knew there was something missing in her life.

In 1948, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on my mother's door, and her life was changed forever.  She read the Book of Mormon, had some very spiritual and sacred dreams, and made her decision to be baptized with my three sisters, who were 9, 12 and 14 years old.

They were baptized in the Guyan River near Logan, West Virginia.  The above picture shows them attending church at Mud Fork close to the time they were baptized.

Dad wanted nothing to do with the church.  He also felt the missionaries were getting a bit too pushy with him.  So, on New Year's Day of 1950, he moved the family to Mansfield, Ohio.  He found a better job, better educational opportunities for his girls, and...no Mormon church.

Four months later, the area opened up for missionary work.  Mom and my sisters were found, and the beginnings of the church in Mansfield began.

Dad joined two years later.

In 1948, women didn't usually strike out and do something like my mother did.  But, she realized what was presented to her was the truth, and she wasn't going to run from it.

She changed the lives of her family, her ancestors, and me - who came along in 1955.

Large family, small posterity

My mother was the oldest of eight children.

By today's standards, this was a large family.  However, many of those children never made it to adulthood.  Mom made it through the flu epidemic of 1918, but so many of her brothers did not.

Her little brother, Edward, died of infantile paralysis at age 3.

Her little brother, Zearl, died during the flu epidemic.

Another little brother, Delbert, died at age four of unknown causes.

Her only sister, little Faye, died at three years old of acute lymphatic leukemia.  She was the youngest.

Her favorite brother, Thearl, was born when Mom was five.  They were playmates and as close as any brother and sister could be.  He did live to adulthood, served in the Navy, married, had one daughter, and died from complications of diabetes at an early age.

A brother that was absolutely beloved by all was also taken in death at an early age - 34.  He married, but had no children.

That leaves one living brother, who still lives in the family home in Kentucky.  He and his wife had one son, who was killed in an ATV this summer.

This large family had only six grandchildren, of which my sisters and I are four of them.  I'm sure my grandparents had no idea of the tragedies that would beset them, for they had come from large families, too.  Their cousins number into the dozens.

My own parents had nine grandchildren from three of their four children.

And then, there's me.  My husband and I had four children.  One has passed.  Our grandchildren numbered five, but then extended to include ten through adoption.

I look at the situations that my grandparents endured while raising their families.  Many of the causes of death that would be relatively easy to treat today tragically swept through their family and extended loved ones, bring sorrow.

A Kentucky Funeral

It was just two short weeks ago that we learned of the death of my cousin, Gregory Earl Stevens.

Greg was the only child of my aunt and uncle, and the apple of their eye.  They were married 14 years before he was born.  It would be hard to find a son better loved than Greg.

Have you ever seen a prouder look in a father's eye?

Greg was only 42 years, and his life ended in an ATV accident.  He was not horsing around.  He came up out of a creek bed and got stuck in some weeds.  When he gunned it, it flipped backward on him, crushing him badly.

It has been many years since I attended a Kentucky funeral.  As a young girl, my memories were not always pleasant ones.  I remember wakes that lasted through the night while the body lay in state in the parlor or front bedroom.  Someone would bring up politics or religion, and mom knew it was time to send me upstairs to bed.  "Discussions" would begin in the dining room, move to the living room, the front porch, and eventually right out into the front yard.

Women would begin bringing in the food, trying to find room for it all on the groaning table.  There would be periods of crying, coupled with periods of laughter and memories.

All of this was called "sittin' with the corpse".

The funeral service was held at the local church, accompanied by a very loud preacher.  I mean no disrespect by stating this.  But, to a little girl it can be quite overwhelming - even frightening.  The church my family attended in Ohio was quite a bit different.

My sisters and I left early in the morning to drive to Olive Hill, Kentucky.  We've driven Rt. 23 south many times in our life - mostly for funerals or Decoration Day.  We were still in shock, but talking with each other greatly eased some of our grief.  We all have good memories of Greg, and of our Aunt Betty and Uncle Dick.

The funeral chapel was in Globe, and the parking lot was already packed.  When we pulled in, we were greeted by someone who is actually a shirttail relative of ours.  I asked him when the next Cline Reunion was going to be, since we hadn't been to one in 12 years.  He said there hadn't been one since then.

People were looking us over.  First of all, most of the cars and trucks were Chevys and Fords.  We drove up in my sister's Toyota Sienna.  We all had skirts on.  There weren't many others who wore skirts or dresses.  I'm sure they were wondering who in the world we were.

We spotted my uncle first.  I was amazed at how much he had aged in the short time since we've seen him.  He embraced me and told me to take lots of pictures.  I mentioned that some people might not like that practice, but he said he didn't care.  He wanted pictures.  Period.

Among all of the beautiful flowers was a bevy of quilts that people chose to send.  I've seen this in the past, but neither of my sisters had.  What a tender way to cuddle up in comfort long after the flowers are gone.

As the choir came in, each member paused to embrace the family.  I was so touched.  Their hugs and love were genuine.  They began to sing, and I was immediately taken back to my childhood.  In my heart and in my mind, I could remember every word.  The peace and comfort began to flow over me.

A wonderful bagpiper played "Amazing Grace" as we filtered into the cemetery.

After a few words at the cemetery, we all traveled up Rt. 174, past Aunt Betty and Uncle Dick's house, past Greg's house, all the way up to Porter Creek Fellowship Hall.  When I walked in, I was taken aback by the tremendous amount of food that had been brought in.

I have never seen so much food at a funeral.  Actually, I've never seen that much food at any of our church socials.  The table seemed to go on for miles, sometimes three deep across the table.  The dessert was located against the wall.

Some of was catered, most was homemade.  My mind again returned to my childhood as I grazed my way through fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fried corn, green beans picked that morning, cornbread, red tomatoes, yellow tomatoes, cucumbers, stack cake, butterscotch pie, chocolate pudding, etc.  I can't even begin to list it all.  The sweet church ladies kept coming around asking if we got enough, and reminding us about the "to-go" boxes that were available.

I sat and talked with my aunt for a long time, my sisters sat with my uncle, who just couldn't eat.  Greg's only child, Ericka, sat across from us with her little daughter, Skylan.  Ericka couldn't eat, either.

Our hearts were broken as we left them for our trip back home.  But, knowing the people in the eastern hills of Kentucky, my aunt and uncle and Ericka will be well taken care of in their grief, their sorrow, their long days to come.  The church and neighborhood family will step in to be the comfort they need in our absence.

There are no more cousins on this side of the family.  My uncle is my mother's only living brother out of a family of eight children.  Mom was the oldest.  Uncle Dick is next to the youngest.  

This funeral brought sweet memories back to me - memories of being a little girl without a whole lot of understanding to a woman grateful for the experiences of childhood.