I belong to a county list here in TN on which a lady started sending a series of letters via the list and she called it Sunday Afternoon Rocking. We all loved it so much we kept asking for more and more of them. I believe it was eventually carried on one of the Rootsweb information mailing list, can't remember the name right now. But anyway....I usually try to keep on the Phelan topic but I'm making another exception and passing this along to you just this one time and I hope you enjoy. Should you wish to get these on a regular weekly basis, you can join her mailing list shown at the bottom of the article. Forgive me for falling off topic. Glenda +++++++++ A Man's Word is His Bond (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series) Most of us come to the day when we are left with the remnants of another's life to sort through. And so it was that the day came, I found in my father's effects a small worn leather purse that had belonged to my own grandfather. In it was a worn and creased, tattered and carefully folded letter. I little realized when I struggled to open its crumbling edges without tearing, how very much this letter had to say. My grandfather was far from wealthy. He had lived all of his life by the sweat of his brow and the toil of his hands. He had farmed, he had cut railroad ties, and he had raised five children on a small farm deep in the hills of Tennessee. When flooding or drought ruined crops, he would go north for a time to a city where there was industry, and pick up a job long enough to make the income to piece his financial picture back again, and square his debts with the country store. Then he could come home to his family and farm some more. He would ship much needed shoes home for the children, and sometimes small bags of sweets such as they saw at no other time in their rural situation. He and his wife would write loving letters back and forth, understanding the situation they chose to build a life around was a precarious one. It was accepted that their lives from year to year was dependent on the weather, dependent on Providence, no matter how early they rose, how hard they toiled or how late the hour their hands finally stilled. By the time he was elderly, his wife was gone, and he had kept the commitment he made to her the day he married until the day she died. Still not wealthy, he could look around at the farm that had served him well, and that he had served, and know that it was paid for, at least. If he had not great material wealth, at least he owed no man, and at least he had managed to "hold his head up". He was able to farm no more, and his income was meager, mostly earned from renting his land to others, but once a year he climbed on a Greyhound bus and traveled from Tennessee to Texas where there yet lived kindred of his own generation. Born in the late 1800's, in a world without media, a world without instant communication, many of my grandfather's ideas were holdovers from such a world even well into the twentieth century. In the world that had reared him, the "credit" extended a man went no further than the estimation those of his own neighborhood had of him. And so it was more than a reason of pride, but a reason of survival to maintain that good name. A man traveling outside his own neighborhood had need of some documentation attesting to that good name, for his own safety and survival in a world that did not know him. So it was that "letters of introduction" were common for the 1800's. But they were not common in the 1960's, when communication was as instant as dialing a telephone. Yet I found just such a letter, carried by that elderly man on his travels to Texas. Attesting to his honesty, his good character, his morality, this letter was signed by virtually every "important" individual in his world: all of his neighbors, his minister, the sheriff, the funeral home director, the judge, the attorney, the owner of a country store. The names went on and on, signatures of the folks in every prominent position in the tiny rural county, and signatures of the simple hardworking folk like himself who had no position other than their own "good names". I was touched at this man's simplicity and trust. To him, this was "proof" for any who might need to know, for anyone who met him or he might need to do business with, for any trouble he might have. This was proof of a lifetime spent building "a good name". Carefully folded and placed in his little leather purse along with the bus ticket stub, he had kept it for his journeys. I have no doubt that on the most final journey of all he did not need such a letter, for it was left in this world for me to find. Perhaps it was celestially decided that I needed it worse than he. For it is to me a symbol of a time in which a "man's word was indeed his bond", a time in which "a good name" was far more important in terms of wealth than riches. It bespeaks a time in which even a seasoned elder could trust that the signature of the folks around him on a piece of paper attesting to his character was meaningful in the world outside his own. And I am overwhelmed and humbled by what I hold in my hands and could never attain myself. By my own accord, I have earned two college degrees, additional certifications, and reaped awards and appreciation plaques. Yet not a single one of the kudos I have heaped in closets and filing cabinets is as meaningful or as rich as that one letter my grandfather folded so carefully and carried with him. It took me some ten years altogether to earn my own diplomas with their "official" stamps and Old English engraved lettering. Some ten years I toiled to earn my papers in their fine leather cases with a few signatures of people who would not recognize me if they saw me. I am sure they are much more dramatic statements in the world today than a creased faded letter an old man carried year after year in his worn purse. And yet, I am overwhelmed, and ashamed of my own poor accomplishments when I hold a letter the likes of which I could never hope to have myself. Everyone I have ever known or had dealings with in my life have not signed such a letter, and I am not sure would if I should even live the eighty years he did. How small are the things our world today frames and holds as examples of exemplary accomplishments. Would that we all could have a worn leather purse that held little more than a carefully creased folded letter. Just a thought, jan Copyright ©2000janPhilpot ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and intent of the publication. Thanks, jan) Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to Sundayrocking-subscribe@topica.com Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to unicorn@sun-spot.com