AUNT MARANDY
This is a copy of a poem written by Stanley Peterson.
Folks call her Aunt Marandy and to them, she's very dear,
Because she's worked as a slave for them for many many a year.
No sacrifice too great for her, no duty will she shun,
She'll keep on trying day and night until the job is done.
She's raised a family of her own, of them she's very proud,
Like all good mothers of the town, she'll praise them right out loud.
And then because of her ministrations, there are so many others
Who worship and adore her so and gladly call her mother.
She's cooked and darned and scrubbed so much, til not she cannot see,
But yet ambition drives her on, content she will not be
You'll find her busy, unafraid, quilting every day
Until each grandchild has a quilt to keep the cold away.
And there she sits all soul alone, her hair turning grey,
Her friends so rarely visit her and none with her will stay.
And still, she keeps plugging on, doing all she can,
She'll keep on striving to the end, dependent on no man.
Her love of God and man and beast is, oh, so very real,
Her place in heaven on God's right hand, from her no one can steal.
And when her years upon this earth have been awhile suspended,
Her noble spirit with that of God will be completely blended.
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Peter Hafen's Memory of Aunt Marandy
She was his great-grandmother. He was only six years old when she died.
He remembers her bringing Keneflei when anyone was sick. She did this for everyone in town.
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