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Page 17 – A Word Personal (cont.) & Glimpses Column

help some other boy in the future, and maybe the means of preserving his life. And this would have been Isaac’s wish could he have been consulted. Yes, a nice, good boy is gone—a clean-living young lad, and a devoted sort arid brother. He would have been 21 this Aug. 5th.


ISSUE OF JAN. 29, 1947

A final word: just to say thank you to the many who sent flowers for Isaac Jan. 22nd, and your letters and cards; he was an appreciative boy, and would be the first to thank you, too, were he with us.

And one more personal word: we the first of this week had Isaac’s mother, the former Lena Everett, who died Jan. 9, 1930, when he was 3 1-2 years old, moved from the Everett little cemetery on LeGrand street, over to Eastside cemetery beside Isaac, so that their graves could be close together-. This met with the full approval of my children, my wife Betty, Mary Louise and Billy; and is but carrying out the wish expressed by Isaac barely a month ago.

I like to look back upon Isaac as a lad; recall when he was six and had been to school but a few days; he came home beaming. “VVhat you so happy about, Isaac?” I was sure the teacher had paid him a big compliment; and she had, maybe. “Teacher says I’m a nice boy, but don’t know much,” and he was quite happy over it. So was I.
Thelma Wheeler, wife of Tom, and a former teacher, told me this of him; she had Isaac in a grammar school class here. Isaac found out about her birthday, and brought to school a bunch of jonquils for her. “There’s one for each year,” he told her. She counted them; “why, there are 45 and you know I’m not nearly that old,” joked Thelma. “Yes,” said Isaac, “but we wanted some for good measure.”

You know, after all, it is to laugh—in most everything in life; and he enjoyed this column of mine—tho’ I admit he often said “corn-ey” about some of my so-called jokes; aird probably would about this one,
Old Uncle Zeke had been working industriously with a stub of pencil and some paper. Suddenly he jumped to his feet with a shout.
“Mandy,” he cried, “doggoned if I ain’t learned to write.”
Mandy looked at the scrawled lines.
“What do it say?” she asked.
“Can’t tell,” said Uncle Zeke, “I ain’t learned to read yet.”

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