Robertson County - TXGenWeb

Used with permission of Jean Willette Lemming Chaney, Ruth Rucker Lemming's daughter. These electronic pages may not be reproduced in any format by other organizations or individuals. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material must obtain the written consent of Jean Willette Lemming Chaney or contact Jane Keppler , Robertson County TXGenWeb coordinator.

This book was lovingly typed by volunteer Jo Ella Snider Parker,
whose first job out of high school was working at Franklin's National Hotel.

Music was her life. Even with all her different experiences, the genuine reality was music. After looking over her entire life, I realize this, anew. It was her favorite theme in all existence: the sound of music!

As a child, Jimmie took no piano lessons. Her first playing had been done at old Ebenezer Church at Headsville. When her family went to church Old John always pulled their wagon. He seemed to enjoy hearing the piano playing and the congregation singing when they sang The Church in the Wildwood, that horse honestly looked all around as if he was as happy as they were when they sang Amazing Grace.

At singing conventions sister played the organ but her legs were too short to reach the pedals, so Grandpa Holton, the first president of the Robertson County Singing Convention, pumped the petals, while Jimmie sat on his lap and played the songs. Invariably she played with no notes - just playing by ear, the surest proof of her love for music.

Jimmie worked hard when she went to Baylor College. Her statement was: “I practice long hours on music which I never even had a chance to hear before.” When she applied for work at the telephone office in Franklin, she asked, “May I take night duty, so I can teach music lessons in the day?” As she taught a boy later, “Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.” So she considered music; only God could make beautiful music.

Jim Weeden, her father was not a settler. He wanted to head West, had a roaming look in his eyes. When he first arrived at Grandpa Holton’s house in the country, he was riding on a horse and playing a guitar. This made him ideal for Jimmie’s father.

There was more than one echo of her father in the child - Jimmie. Her eyes were jumping. Minnie, her mother-to-be, had been left along with the sick Jim Weeden while her father, Thomas Holton, went to Kosse for a doctor. Before he left, Minnie inquired frantically, “You’re not going to leave us here all alone?”

Her eyes searched surrounding darkness; she thought she heard a rustling in a nearby bush. Then she saw Jim’s beloved pale face in the flickering light from the table lamp and answered with a contempt for danger: “No papa, I’m not afraid.”

After her father’s departure, Minnie had sat there by the bed, cradling Jim’s head - her own body jumping convulsively in rhythm to Jim’s eyes which were going back and forth, back and forth, in his head, as if in consternation at his early tragic death. At last Minnie fell asleep. Just fifteen years old and waiting for Jimmie to be born - with eyes that jumped - though in her case the movement was more like a twinkle. If one can believe an old wives’ tale, Jimmie was marked with the movement of her father’s eyes and her mother’s body.

A few years later, Minnie had married Henry Rucker, a school teacher in the community, and they soon went to live in Franklin, As a young girl, Jimmie had the usual experiences of a small town person. Once she went with others on a picnic to Indian Mound - east of town - where they went for arrowheads. When she was older, she went on a possum hunt on a moonlight night - well chaperoned of course. An old Mexican man, wearing a colorful sombrero and pushing a cart containing an old lard can up and down the streets, was seen frequently in Franklin. He shouted his wares with the cadence of a song:

“Hot Tamales!
Hot Tamales!
Buy your Hot Tamales!
Very Hot; Very good!
Home made Hot Tamales!
Four bits a dozen!”

These three experiences gave rise to lifelong interests. Jimmie always loved the out of doors though she never had much time to enjoy it. Years later she lived with Mama at the old Hurley house in Franklin, There she kept the grass and flowers - a show case for all the town to see. In Dallas, she would often take long walks with Frances; the well cared for flower beds were a delight, and the songs of the birds echoed in her own musician’s ears. Often when they went home they ate Mexican food - Jimmie’s favorite - particularly Wolf Brand Chili.

Frequently, she went to all-day dinner and singing on the ground, at least that’s the way they put it in Franklin, There she could play and sing - indulging in her favorite form of entertainment.

The main street of Franklin was covered with huge shade trees; on this street Uncle Sid Ferguson was frequently seen. He was an old man that had the first phonograph Jimmie ever saw. Much later she was to hear soul searching music played by master hands on modern phonographs, on radio, and even the television; but nothing compared with the music of that first phonograph. Some boys and girls would go up to Uncle Sid’s house to play it. They were enamored with the big horn, shaped like a morning glory blossom. The records were cylinder shaped - not like today’s platter records. What a break it was for a girl whose whole life was to be devoted to music!

Jimmie went with Kitty Davlin, one of her best friends, to dances, skating rinks, parties, joy rides - all sorts of places. And once, Mama took Kitty to Galveston with Jimmie, Ruth, and Alys Truett; how funny their bathing suits looked in pictures taken then but looked at long after! Jimmie’s sparkling blue eyes, her dazzling complexion, and her strawberry colored hair made her an asset to any group.

The girls went down to the tournament troop trains later and took the boys going through coffee, cookies, and sandwiches. They stood there by the trains and sang with the boys such old songs as “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” and “I’m Gonna Call You My Sweetheart.” There were so many occasions that Mama wanted Sister to keep a diary or a scrapbook of remembrances. Sister often thought about it, but her life was crammed so full that she never seemed to get around to it.

When Jimmie was eighteen, she went away to college - Normal School at Huntsville for one year. This was the custom for training teachers in that day. During the Christmas holidays, I was born - a real top crop for my family. Jimmie loved her little sister, Ruth, very early and considered me her special charge. In return, I adored her and have always considered myself luck to have had a big sister.

That summer, the tragic events related in Chapter III took place, and Jimmie went with Mama to live at the National Hotel. Life in the hotel just seemed to be made for my sister, now known to everyone as “Miss Jim.” During the year she taught in rural schools near Franklin. These were happy times for her.

Then Frank Garrett came along. He was an itinerant photographer who stayed at the hotel and went out to surrounding towns to drum up business. His family lived in West Virginia - far away. Quite a different sort of life from Jimmie’s in Texas. He fell in love with my beautiful sister with her strawberry hair and dancing blue eyes, and soon they were married. They lived for a while at the National Hotel.

Alys Truett, our cousin, had always been a very good friend to Jimmie. Once when they were little girls living at Headsville, they had gone out to the four-holer privy behind the house. Jimmie told Alys about some freshly dug earth to the side of the privy. The girls took a nearby shovel and dug into the earth. They found a metal box buried there containing much money - all in silver. Tash (as everyone called Alys) was shocked, but Jimmie, who always seemed to have a good solution, reassured her: “That’s not so strange, Tash. Very few people in the Baptist Church have paper money.”

But Alys, still not understanding, said, “But - but - how on earth did this get here?

Jimmie answered. “I’ll bet I know. Uncle Polk is church treasurer. Your daddy must have hidden the money here till he had time to go to Kosse and put it in the bank.” The girls kept this secret forever. No one knew then nor till nearly one hundred years later about Uncle Polk’s metal box containing the church money.

It was customary for Alys to spend many nights with Jimmie, particularly after they were grown. She continued this practice even after Sister was married. One night Alys spent the night sleeping in an adjoining room to Jimmie’s and Frank’s - upstairs. In the middle of the night she was awakened by most unusual sounds; the next morning she talked to Jimmie about them.

“Hey, Jim, last night I heard the queerest sounds. I can’t imagine what was going on.”

Jimmie was embarrased. “Oh, Tash! You always put your foot in it when you get started.”

Jimmie answered: “If you must know (red faced but teasing) Frank and I were just pitching a little woo.”

Alys replied: “These damned walls are so all-fired thin. Well, I guess I’ve got a pretty good idea of how to act when I get married.”

The couple lived in Franklin for awhile, and her brother Robert played a big part in their lives. The boys figured a livery stable business would really pay off. A great many people didn’t have any way to get to places, and Frank thought they’d come in and rent the equipment. They convinced Mama that a lot of drummers at the hotel would like to go out to other towns to sell their products. So she came through, as usual, and financed their business. One of the best features was that Jimmie could go to social affairs in a “hug-me-tight” buggy. But money was scarce, and soon Frank became dissatisfied. They lost the money they had put into the venture; neither man considered Mama, who had put up the money in the first place.

Then they moved to Winters in West Texas. Frank had heard a hotel drummer at the hotel say one day: “I know of a damned good business in a town in West Texas - Winters.”

After investigation, Brother Frank had decided to go. Robert (via Mama) went into the cleaning and pressing business with him. Sister would say to the two men on Sunday morning, “Why don’t you both go with me to Sunday School and Church today?”

Frank answered. “Afraid we can’t go this morning. We have to clean up our place nice for next week’s trade.”

So Jimmie, sadly, went on to church without them. Soon her sadness turned to gladness because she was always happiest when she was playing and singing in church. But the town was not very prosperous. They lost money again, of course - Mama’s again, certainly. Soon the couple went to West Virginia to live with Frank’s parents, and Robert came back to Franklin.

That next year, 1912, proved very long for all of us. West Virginia (as I found out in our atlas) was so far away with Constance born there and all. Finally, Sister wrote that she was pregnant again. This decided Mama. Nothing daunted, she planned and executed a trip to West Virginia, via New Orleans and New York, taking Alys Truett and me (just 7 years old) with her. The hotel was left for two months in the capable hands of Mrs. Scott, who later became Alys’ mother-in-law.

The voyage from New Orleans to New York was wonderful, but I became quite ill there and had to stay in the hotel with a hired nursemaid (as baby-sitters were called then). On Sunday morning, Mama and Tash sailed forth in search of a Baptist church; then they took in the Statue of Liberty and all the famous New York sights in true Texas style. But the best part of the trip was arriving in the beautiful country of West Virginia and seeing my very own niece. Constance, soon to be shortened to Connie. She was so adorable, and I fell for her at sight.

We loved all of Brother Frank’s family and enjoyed the horseback rides and picnics. At Mama’s insistence, we even went down to see a mine in operation. But the time was fast approaching for our departure for home. Mama begged for Sister and the baby to go back to Texas with her - wishing for her second child to be born in her mother’s home state and using the argument that she (Mama) wanted to share in Jimmie’s care. She promised that she would send them all three back to West Virginia on the train just as soon as the new baby was able to travel.

Sister had been rather quiet during our entire visit. She seemed withdrawn and unhappy not at all her usual jolly self. Brother Frank was seldom at home. He always came up with a mumbled, lame excuse about “seeing some friends.” Mama found him willing for Sister and Connie to go back with us, and Mother Garrett thought the trip would do Jimmie good. So it was decided that they were to go. On the train, Sister told Mama about the rift with Frank. Distance did not seem to make Brother Frank’s heart grow fonder, and the upshot was that Jimmie and her two babies came to live at the hotel in Franklin with us. I loved having them, the two children particularly; and I considered Frances my special property since she was born at our hotel.

One day in December, Jimmie received a letter from Frank. It was in response to one she had written to him. She opened it and read it. “Mama”, she called, “I’d like for you to see this.”

Mama took the letter and read: “Dear Jimmie, you say you and the children need winter clothes. Here is some money. I don’t remember the winters there being very cold. Besides, I have some heavy expenses just now. Maybe I can send more in a few months. Frank.”

“And this is what he sent,” said Jimmie tearfully. “A five dollar bill! And he never said a word about my offer to come back to West Virginia to try again.” Sister considered the five dollar bill for winter clothes for the three of them an insult, so she returned it.

This was the last letter she was ever to receive from him. He never even saw Frances. Three years later he received an uncontested divorce, and Sister began to make a new life in Franklin, Texas.

Soon after, Robert’s first wife, Ruth, died, and he brought his two children, Robert and Minnie, home to Mama. So her four grandchildren grew up in Mammy’s (as she was lovingly termed) hotel together. The four children seemed like Minnie’s own children; and the life of a small town hotel was the only life they ever knew. I never realized any differences in the children. In fact, I ran home from school one day crying inconsolably because someone had told me that Jimmie was my half sister. I loved the “kids” equally. They were my charges, my responsibilities, my joy!

During the next several years, Mama left the hotel occasionally; but she always returned. Minnie was known for her wandering foot but the hotel - all paid for - was her security. First, she left for Gainesville, to run a hotel there. Second, she went to Waco to be near Robert with his children before he was sent overseas in World War I from Richfield Air Force Base; but he spent the whole war near Waco. Third, Mama moved to Austin so that I would transfer to Texas University, but my ties to Baylor College were too strong and I stayed in Belton. Mama ran a rooming house and sold hats and corsets. Oh, yes, I forgot one other escape from the hotel. She built a house in Franklin and moved the family there. I remember that all the kids had measles and mumps at this house, but I cared for them and never did take either. Sometimes when Mama went on these escapades she rented the hotel to Mrs. Scott or Mrs. Talley, but usually it was to Jimmie. She knew the hotel business as well as Mama did. Her friendliness and good humor made the guests feel very welcome; so Jimmie was a real replacement for Mama - even in the way she picked up a bit of crochet - never letting her hands be idle. Who could foretell that years later the pieces were to be crocheted together to make a bedspread for each granddaughter.

Sister gave this account of her life in Franklin while she was raising her children: “I could always find employment because I was loyal and willing to work, so we didn’t have to want for money. There was always a job for me with the telephone office, and the girls at any time could work at the hotel. Sometimes they would need me to spend the night to work at the telephone office. Oh, the late calls! You’d be surprised at the people who were called at all hours; but - No! No! I can’t tell you a thing about them. A telephone has no ears. I was Worthy Matron of the Eastern Star for two years; thank goodness I’m just a member now. Of course I keep busy as church pianist - what with practicing for special numbers and all.

I’ll tell you what really makes life in Franklin worthwhile though - friendship! My friends in Franklin came from all walks of life, but the ones I love the most and who return my affection are the other girls who work at the telephone office.”

Mr. Silverman was a guest at the hotel all the time sister lived there. She would say to him: “Mr. Abe, look after my children this afternoon, please; don’t let them play out in the street.”

And he answered: “Sure. And I’m proud to be a help to you, Miss Jim. Here, scalawags, Connie, Frances, Minnie, Robert; I’ve got a quarter. Let’s go up the street and have an ice cream cone.” Sister would invite him to go to church on Sunday mornings. One day he told her, “Miss Jim, I do not believe in God. I think a man is like a dog; when he dies, he dies all over.” But Mr. Silverman’s heart was in the right place and he was always ready to help others, particularly children; as witness the sidewalk which he had placed all around the new school building.

One of the most interesting men in Franklin was Mr. George C. Parnum. He spoke often of his former life: “I have a wife and family in London. By Jove, I left England many years ago, but I’m still remembered there.” (No one knew the cause of his departure, but years after his death, a son came to Franklin and put a marker on his grave.) The old man would drive up and down the street with his horses, Sweetheart and Darling, pulling his old fashioned ’Surrey with the fringe on top.’ In his musical voice, he’d call out:

“Come on, boys and girls,
I’ll take you for a ride
With my Sweetheart and my Darling
And we will on a picnic go
Be very careful, though,
Of red bugs, ticks and mosquitoes.”

Mr. Parnum had been a music publisher in London; now he sold music to his fellow townspeople in his adopted country. He also tuned pianos, collected junk, and even taught a few private piano pupils. In his old ragged clothes he would go to the Baptist Church on Sunday and play the violin. When he played, it seemed as if the gates of heaven opened up and one could imagine that the angels were playing on their harps. Just as when Uncle Polk Truett lifted up his head to pray; then one could imagine that the very voice of God was talking to him.

When my brother Robert was living on the old Holomon Ranch, he went fox hunting often. He told of one of his experiences, “I was walking along and heard a faint sound in the distance. I listened intently, and as I got closer I could tell it was someone playing a fiddle. When I got near enough to see, I recognized Old Man Parnum playing his violin, Playing Beethoven with an audience of birds and bees, and occasionally (as now) a dog and a man. I observed that the old man was actually living in an empty piano box - yet creating beautiful music.”

Jimmie also told of an experience with Mr. Parnum. “One day I took my daughters with me to buy some music from him in his little old dilapidated house in Franklin, When we got inside, I detected the presence of music everywhere. Tables were covered with sheets of beautiful songs; stacks were on all the chairs, dresser drawers were stuffed to overflowing with instrumental selections; they were scattered all over the cook stove and the bed. Mr. Parnum literally slept on music...and I had a feeling kinship with the lonely old man.”

Often, in the evening, a group of people would gather around the piano in Mama’s parlor-that parlor with the white wicker furniture, the old phonograph with the listening dog, with family portraits all around, and with books everywhere, overflowing the hand made bookcases. They were gathering to sing after supper for recreation. (There was no radio or television in the early nineteenth century, and there were few automobiles for joy rides.) An occasional drummer joined the group. Mr. Firm Carpenter, the local postmaster, and his wife usually sang with them. So did Tom Hawkins, Alys Truett, Mr. Sam Rogers and Miss Maud McMillan - the couple that never married but courted for years. Mr. Will Rushing was also with the singers. He was a tall, handsome old bachelor - as typical a lawman as Marshall Dillon on television in the far distant future.

Jimmie led the group. She loved to play the piano; and they wanted to hear her play the old songs like Whispering, Who’s Sorry Now? and Let the Rest of the World Go By.

Sometimes the four children and I were allowed to join the group. Connie and Frances would slip in close under the piano when their mother played their favorites, Napoleon’s Last Charge and Maple Leaf Rag. Connie played them when she grew up; later her daughter, JoAn, played them too. Then her granddaughter, Connie Marie, also learned to play them - making the love of music go on from generation to generation.

During World War I the group sang war songs: “Over There”, “How You Gonna Keep ’Em Down On The Farm”, and “It’s A Long Way To Tipperary”, “Goodbye Broadway, Hello France”, and “Just A Baby’s Prayer At Twilight”. I still remember every word of them.

On November 11, 1918, Germany surrendered to the Allies. The word was received in Franklin very early in the morning. Morgan had just came to the Hotel to cook breakfast when all the whistles began blowing, the church bells started pealing, and all the people were aroused to scream and yell at the top of their voices.

Morgan gave us all a dishpan and long spoon to beat in celebration. Mama, Sister, the four children and I were enthusiastic participants in this parade. I remember that I had been secretly jealous of Mama’s marching at the head of a group of women shouting for “Susan B. Anthony” and “the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.“ Now I was a real part of a real parade.

So life went on full of happiness and sadness, frustration and fulfillment until Jimmie married Mr. Smith, an old beau from Sam Houston State College. He met her on a train on the way to Huntsville; at school he dated her and wanted to marry; but they never did, and he found himself in Sanderson, where he was principal of the high school many years later, holding a conversation with a fellow teacher.

“I didn’t know that you lived in Franklin. The sweetest gal I ever knew lived there.”

“Why, you can’t mean it. I know Mrs. Rucker well. Bu the way Mama wrote me the other day that Mrs. Rucker’s daughter, Jimmie, had come home from West Virginia to live in Franklin with her two little girls.”

“I can’t believe it,” Mr. Smith said interestedly. “I wonder what happened to Frank.”

So on this challenge, Archie Smith wrote to Jimmie Garrett that night. Their friendship developed through letters; he wrote her that he had always loved her; she needed a home and father for her daughters; the result was that he came to Franklin and married her Christmas Eve, 1918. Connie was six and Frances was five. Neither remembered her own father.

They lived the first few months in Sanderson, Jimmie and the girls missed Mama and the Hotel very much. A. W. was trying to find some other way to make a living besides teaching. Frances prattled: “The big oil wells look like big old trees reaching out with their arms to get us.”

When they moved to Breckenridge, they rode on a train pass. That was a big thrill for the girls who clamored for an ice cream cone like Mr. Silverman’s, which they were given for a special treat. Strange! But not even Baskin-Robbin’s tastes as good. While they were there, Sister left the children one day for a few hours with “Daddy Smith”. In their play, they breathed their breath against a window pane to see it get cloudy. Mr. Smith was quite indignant and started to whip them but remembered - in time - Sister’s oft-repeated admonitions against his temper. It was one of their chief bones of contention.

But the place that seemed most like home was near Marshall in East Texas where A. W. had spent his childhood. One of their chief delights was riding on Old Dexter, their gently retired dray horse. Frances, who was always into some kind of mischief, took a freshly baked loaf of bread from the kitchen. Connie wanted to go too, so they both climbed on Old Dexter’s back and rode him down the hill.

The lazy sights and sounds of a spring morning tempted them and they went much farther than just “down the hill”, eating all the while on the insides of the loaf of bread. When they reached down to get Old Dexter, he gave a big lunge and away he went back home to his shady pasture. Both girls fell off and had to walk all the way back home. They had considerable difficulty in explaining away the middle of the loaf of bread which Frances still clutched in her grubby little hand. You can bet that they were punished when their mother came home that same afternoon. Their stepfather had been forbidden ever to lay a hand on them; Sister ruled the roost with a firm hand.

Jimmie attended the College of Marshall part-time and worked as a bookkeeper part-time at the co-op store to supplement their lean income. Finally, however, A. W. had to go back to teaching, and he found a job at Spicewood - near Austin.

They decided that Jimmie should go to Baylor College, where Ruth was, to pursue her degree in voice. Archie said: I am very anxious for you to go. Next year I will be making $125.00 per month. I can live on $50.00 and you can go to school on the other $75.00. Mama always ready for anyone to pursue an education, wanted to keep the two children. “Why I’ll hardly know they are on the place. They can play with Minnie and Robert, and they’ll be a real help to me in the Hotel; I won’t even miss what they’ll eat.” So this was the arrangement for a year.

The second year, Jimmie was allowed to teach younger students at the college, so she took the children to live with her in an apartment in Belton. These were extremely happy years for Jimmie. Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach - many great names in music became actualities for her. Their wonderful sounds echoed in her head forever. Their music seemed to give her a sense of permanence, a feeling that life was good.

Then, they moved to Wheelock, where Mr. Smith had a better job as superintendent. The whole family was really content in Wheelock. It was an old, aristocratic town, which Jimmie found to be very receptive to music. She gave many excellent recitals, both individually and with her students. Connie still says: “We never lived anywhere that we had better, more congenial friends. And we were so nice and close to Franklin and could frequently visit Mammy, Aunt Ruth, (who was teaching there at the time), Robert and Minnie at the National Hotel - which we always considered home.”

At school one day, a teacher told Frances to stay in after school for some infraction of the rules. Just as school closed, Mrs. Smith came by - not realizing what the teacher had told Frances - and ordered: “Frances, go home quickly now. Don’t dawdle. Connie has to practice, and I’ll be home in about an hour.” Frances went straight home, listening to her mother’s command; she didn’t understand all the rules in Wheelock anyway.

Soon after Connie and Sister got home, Mr. Smith came stalking in talking distractedly: “Frances, come here. Since when do you think the superintendent’s child is more important than any other child and does not have to obey the teacher. I’m going to whip you for sure this time.” But Sister intervened: “A. W., I didn’t know that Frances had been told to stay in. I told her to come on home. The child is not to blame. If anyone is at fault, it is her mother.” Well, Mr. Smith didn’t want to whip them both, so he went for about an hour’s walk, but Frances shook for the entire hour.

The last place they lived together was Franklin. Mr. Smith was teaching in Buffalo. Connie was a grown girl then and soon married Sylman Galloway. Mr. Smith was outspoken in his criticisms of them and of Jimmie. So she decided they would be better off without him; and in 1930, they were separated and later divorced.

The hardest period of sister’s life occurred at the time that should have been the most peaceful. The depression hit hard and it was almost impossible to make ends meet. Her oldest daughter was married to a boy that did not have sufficient training to make a good living for his family. Her youngest daughter was at Providence Hospital in Waco learning to be a nurse and not yet able to make a living.

Sister expressed it this way: “I work long hours at my telephone job and then teach as many music students as I possible can. I buy things on credit. I borrow money. Mama can’t help much because the hotel business isn’t as good as it used to be. She often sends me very welcome left-over food from the meals served at the National Hotel, but I get in deeper all the time. Yet I always go to church whenever I can; it is my pleasure to sing and play for others. Music has always been first with me, except for my children and grandchildren.”

JoAn, Connie and Sylman’s first child, was loved by everyone. She was the darling of four families - her own, her two grandmother’s and her great-grandmother’s.

They moved to a little house near the telephone office where there was room for the children in about 1931. Sylvia Nan was born there; Frances had come home to help because she was an obstetric nurse. Connie was having an exceedingly hard time and her mother had to leave the room. She turned toward the parlor distractedly mumbling the words: “When hope is gone, one has to depend on God.” Then she reached upward with both hands on the paper covered wall as if God indeed were there and she could reach Him. Sylvia’s first wail filled the air, and Jimmie knew that all was well. Orrel Jean soon joined the family. They were the dearest three little sisters imaginable. Robert Frost said, “All I know about life is: It goes on.” Even so did Sister’s.

After both her children had left, Sister lived by the water tower - all alone. For many years she had been the mainstay of her family - breadwinner, guide and consultant. Connie’s troubles had been her own. Frances’ training had been her care. When these responsibilities were no longer on her shoulders, she had a nervous breakdown. After while, she went to Skidmore where Connie and Sylman and their children lived.

Jimmie wrote this in a letter to her mother: “I am very happy here in Skidmore with Connie and her family. Her dear children are like my very own - not only JoAn and Sylvia Nan and Orrel Jean, but also Robert Sylman who came later. I love them all dearly. Sylman is just like my own son and Connie and I have never been closer, even in the good old days when we planned for her to be a concert pianist. That’s one of the most wonderful things about music. It enriches life; and regardless of whether one plays on the stage or in her own little cottage, life is more worthwhile.”

When the time came for her return to Franklin, she did so with renewed strength, able to take up her life again - to go on.

When Mama retired from the hotel, she went to Tyler to live with me where I was teaching. But I left to become service club hostess in the Army, and later married and went to live in California. Mama lived in an apartment at Alys’ and then bought the old Hurley place in Franklin, and she and Sister lived there until Mama’s death on May 13, 1952.

After several years, filled with many more responsibilities, Sister became physically ill and went to live with Frances and Doyle in Dallas. Despite her pain and suffering, she was always happy with them. Frances devoted herself to making her mother’s last years as comfortable and happy as she could. She took her mother across the city to take private lessons in playing the pipe organ - one of Jimmie’s lifelong ambitions. Her occasional visits to Connie were happy times; but Sister developed Parkinson’s Disease. Later she broke a hip, so her children had to have additional help, and they placed her in a nursing home. She was in several homes in Dallas, then in South Texas. Both Connie and Frances took excellent care of her. Frances went every day to feed her mother and bathe and dress her and push her in her wheelchair up and down the halls.

In the nursing home for the first few years, she frequently played and sang in the parlors. One day they were listening to Perry Como singing “Ave Maria.” Frances says that she can still hear her mother say, “I’ll just tell you he can sure sing a lot better than that Presley boy,” Sister loved this happy time. She felt that life was made better for the other people who were there. What more can music do?

But the time soon came when even her love for music was no longer in evidence. Her days were spent in her own room except for little rides in the wheelchair. Sister’s lovely appearance, her beautiful hair, and her disregard for her own feelings gave others cheer. Old songs echoed in her brain and brought a little smile to the corners of her mouth.

She might well have ended her life with the words of a song which she had once sung so beautifully:

“I sing because I’m Happy;
I sing because I’m Free.
For His eye is on the Sparrow,
And I know He watches me.”