THROUGH
MOUNTAIN MISTS
Early Settlers of
Their
Descendants...Their Stories...Their Achievements
Lifting the
Mists of History on Their Way of Life
By: Ethelene Dyer Jones
In tribute to
my friend, Barbara Ruth Sampson
Waiting for the
postman will not have the same anticipation again. My long-time friend
and pen pal, Barbara Ruth Nicholson Collins Sampson retired her "living
pen" and slipped beyond the vale on
Even now as I
consider her life and work, I seek words that will paint a picture of
who she was: daughter, sister, life-long student, teacher, friend,
writer, painter, wife, mother, grandmother, lover of nature, friend to
people and animals, proponent of mountain living, appreciator of family
heritage and history. And even this list does not cover the
multi-faceted person known as Barbara Ruth Sampson.
She was born in
Her father,
James M. Nicholson, was born in
Family lines
and genealogy fascinated Barbara Ruth Sampson. She had traced the
families of Nicholson, Chastain and other lines, appreciating the
contributions made by ancestral patriots and pioneers to the freedom
and growth of
Her father met
Flora Manard as both were students at
Barbara,
academically gifted and competitive, was valedictorian of her 1931
Barbara chose
teaching as her career. Her early years of teaching were at
She loved her
role as grandmother. From her elder daughter Frances Nelle came three granddaughters, Rebecca, Leah
and Dabatha. Barbara Andrea has two sons,
Jarrod and Ryan Freeman. Ryan is now serving with the U.S. Marines in
Barbara had a
gift for painting, for catching the essence of a scene, a still-life or
a flower on canvas. She had the gift of words and used this gift to
encourage through teaching creative writing in the classroom, in her
correspondence to friends, family and acquaintances, to elucidate
through essays, to craft stories and a novel (unpublished), and to
write exquisite poetry. She won numerous awards for her poetry, among
which was National Senior Poet Laureate for 2004.
I had the
privilege of writing the review for her book of poems, Earth
is a Splendid Place, published by Sparrowgrass
Press, 2000. As I read and reread her book, I noted immediately how her
skill with meter, rhyme, rhythm and poetic language was akin to Byron
Herbert Reece's style. In my correspondence with Barbara over the
years, we often exchanged ideas about Reece's poetry. Although she was
three years his senior, they were contemporaries and had exchanged
poems to benefit from each other's critiques and suggestions for
improvement of their poetic craft. She greatly admired Reece.
With her,
poetry-writing and other personal literary productions had to be
relegated to being "stress busters," a catharsis, a well-loved hobby.
Her life was devoted to teaching, making a living, making a home and
rearing daughters. The 63 poems in her one published book are but a
miniscule number of the ones from her prolific pen. She wrote me once,
"Poetry writing does not pay the bills!" How well we who are writers by
avocation know that truth. We could wish that all her poems could be
collected and published posthumously. We would all be richer if we
could read all that she has written.
She expressed a
sense of concern about what would happen to her writings in this poem
(page 12, Earth Is A Splendid Place):
What
of
All
the
Little
Words
What will become of all the little words
I've breathed into the listening air,
When I am gone, long, long gone,
’Till no one can hear me there?
And what of all the little words
I have entrusted to my living pen
To keep my joy alive and vital,
As I will not be then?
Will all be gone when I am gone-
No permanency - will they surely pass
Like apple blossoms faintly falling,
Fast forgotten in the dewy grass?
I have a fat
file labeled "Sampson, Barbara Ruth - Letters." To me her regular
letters were not "little words" but dear missals worth saving. I have
my replies to her, dated, and copied, attached to her letters. Now that
I won't be going to the mailbox to receive an envelope with her
hand-written address, I will be reading through the file, remembering
how we shared what pleased us of life and living.
My life has
been enriched from the influence of her father and mother as my
teachers, and in more recent years of their daughter as a dear friend
and correspondent.
She wrote a
quatrain and its title became the title of her published book of poems:
Earth
is
a
High the sky to the edge of heaven,
Bright the sun as a smiling face,
Life is a treasured blessing given,
And earth is a splendid place.
When I heard of
her passing, I quietly reread her
book of poems and then wrote this quatrain:
Transition
to
Heaven
Quiet the night when transition came,
Her life a rich tapestry woven
Was folded and labeled with her name
As she gently slipped into heaven.
[Ethelene
Dyer Jones is a retired educator, freelance writer, poet, and historian.
She may be reached at e-mail edj0513@windstream.net;
phone 478-453-8751; or mail
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