Today there was a gathering of friends, neighbours and kin-folk at a church in Courtice. We were celebrating my Aunt Jean's 90th birthday. After greeting cousins and aunts and uncles, I joined Dad and Elizabeth in the corner. Pretty sure Dad was put there so he couldn't easily tell people any of his reeeealllly bad jokes. He managed to anyway. Did you hear the one about Beethoven? Lots of head-shaking.
During the celebration, Dad was called up on stage. He had a poem to share. Dad's often asked to speak at such occasions and today was no exception. Earlier in the week, he hadn't been too sure what to say so brother Enos sailed in and offered to help out. Here's what they came up with...
Jean’s Day
Beneath the western, Tisdale sun
In November, nineteen and twenty-one
Was born a girl, a daughter known as Jean
To Muriel mom and Cecil dad
One of the first her parents had
The years would bring a few more to the scene
Out on the farm the family grew
The children, ten, the parents, two
The Thackeray clan all learned to work and play
In fields of amber wheat and corn
Then on to church on Sunday morn
And to and from their school, uphill, both ways
Five cents was each child’s share
At the Silver Stream agricultural fair
“The ice cream or the candy?”, each would think
And other times, dry goods galore
In Runciman, at the general store
Near the grain elevator, just past the curling rink
Then as the thirties came and went
Some money made, some money spent
The whole gang packed their lives and headed down
Ontario way on an eastbound train
With a whistle and a bell’s refrain
Gore’s Landing, then to Peterborough town
Then as a few more years unwound
While searching for a beau, Jean found
Her love named John, and soon the two were wed
In forty-six, church bells would ring
A choir and the birds did sing
As rings were placed and wedding vows were said
Soon children followed, the family grew
Jean and John saw life anew
Along came Glen and then his sister Gail
Third was little daughter Ann
Then little Johnny grew the clan
A house became a home on Prestonvale
And then for years near Rice Lake’s shore
At the Landing named for Thomas Gore
The annual family picnic had its home
Uncles, aunts and cousins all
Would meet and eat and have a ball
Brothers, sisters, one and all, could roam
One year, a floating plane flew in
And Uncle Stu asked with a grin
If anyone would care to take a ride
And Garnet said, “I’ll take that dare”
And as the two flew through the air
We wondered how he kept his lunch inside
Those picnics are a great display
How families can find a way
To gather near and stand on common ground
And learn of where they started from
And look to all the days to come
To celebrate with friends and kin around
And so, we turn to Jean this day
The Tisdale girl whose made her way
Through ninety years and send our wishes true
We raise a glass and hold it high
And see the twinkle in your eye
We wish to say from all of us, to you
Happy Birthday! And we love you.
Not bad, eh? I reckon I can hear an old country tune in there. A little Merle Haggard or Conway Twitty. Or George Jones.
As I left, I took a picture of the minister's parking space.
Alright, alright. It doesn't take much to make me laugh. But that's funny!
9 comments:
I love the picture!
And no, it doesn't take much to make you laugh. I should know.
I love it! Did you know that church was there? (Do you know Courtice?) Anyhoo, wasn't sure of the name of the church and I was thinking it was an old one so I ended up near Bowmanville before I turned around and went back. Oops.
Happy birthday and congratulations to Aunt Jean. Sounds like your Dad did her proud.
Thanks Sharon. The poem rec'd a few 'ohhh's (ten kids!), a couple laughs and a round of applause at the end. Dad and my brother did a great job.
The church looks really new. I don't go to Courtice much.
Awww, that's nice work. I hope she had a good time. I hope you keep your crap sense of humour for a long time.
Dorito - me neither. And even less to church.
Philip - that made me laugh too. (See?) I figure it's better to laugh than to cry so, here we are.
Liz.
The credit for this poem goes to Brian. He wrote it all and did an excellent job.
Love,Dad.
Yep. He done good.
Post a Comment