This poem is better seen written in rough, country handwriting because it’s a rough, country poem. It will lose a little on a website, but I’ll try and mitigate that somewhat by setting the stage.
My Aunt Harriet was born in Dickson, TN, or thereabouts, in 1925, or thereabouts. She spent only a few years of her life with running water or indoor plumbing, and probably spent even less of her life in anything like decent health. Rheumatic fever, scarlet fever, heart conditions, diabetes, the list was about endless. Doctors, even good ones, predicted an early demise for her to her kin, but she made it to eighty, in spite of them.
She grew up kind of wild, from what I had always been told, including two miscarriages before she was eighteen (or married). At eighteen she got saved and as far back as I can remember she was a Missionary Baptist. If you have ever been to a Missionary Baptist church you have gone back in time at least fifty years. It is about as country (read: hick) a denomination as you might run across this side of a Oneness Penecostal or Church of God of Prophecy. It doesn’t matter where they are, either. Big city or small town. You could go to one on the upper east side in Manhattan and the people would still be dressed in polyester, holding big hymnals, and singing “When we all get to Heaven” as off key as is humanly possible. They were a perfect fit for my Aunt.
They also, at least to me, always seem a little stern and severe. Southern Baptists are big on grace, but I think the Missionary Baptists focus more on holiness and personal piety. You always felt like you had been appraised by my Aunt and found lacking, but she would pray for you anyhow. This may have been my guilty conscience as much as her demeanor, but in any case it was how I perceived her.
This is one reason why this poem is so startling for me, because it is so gracious and tender-hearted and is so different from what was often her temperament. I remember seeing the title and thinking I was in for a spiritual horror show with lots of fire and brimstone- but she surprised me. She wrote a lot, more poems than anything else, and even at her funeral the preacher read one of her old poems. My Dad said she was the brightest of the eight kids, her literary and analytical skills standing out all the more against the rustic background of her backwoods life. In any case, this is my personal favorite of her poems, very simple and spiritual, but clearly drawing from the hard-won battles of life that might have been lost without the help of neighbors. This poem relates the recognition of the need to both give and receive mercy from these neighbors and friends that are such a part of a rural person’s life.
THE ERRING ONE
Think gently of the Erring One,
O’ let us not forget,
However darkly stained by sin,
He is our brother yet.
Heir of the same inheritence,
Child of the same God.
He hath but stumbled in the path,
We have in weakness trod.
Speak gently to the Erring One,
We may yet lead him back,
With holy words and tones of love,
From misery’s stony track.
Forget not, brother, you have sinned,
And sinful yet may be.
Deal gently with the Erring heart,
As God has dealt with thee.
That is SO beautiful. I never, ever, knew about her writing poetry. I only saw her creative nature expressed in the most beautiful embroiders work, or quilts she helped make. I would love to have a copy of all of her poesms. Thanks for posting this, Glen.
When I was little we spent a lot of time taking Aunt Harriet to and from Vanderbilt Clinic for one thing or another. They were first-come, first-serve; so she had to be there as soon as they opened and then wait for hours to be seen. I have no idea how she paid for all that medical care. Glenn, no one ever mentioned the miscarriages to me. There is a vague impression that she might have been “bothered” (read that: raped or sexually abused), but never did anyone talk about it with a girl. That’s a nice poem. I guess she and I were alike in more ways than I realized.
Aunt Harriet was always working hard on the farm from my earliest memories of her. I remember the day she was using a saw to cut wood and it slipped and cut into the flesh of her right calf. It was a horrible cut and bled something fierce. My Dad and Uncles (I don’t remember which ones) rushed to put on a tourniquet and get her to the hospital. I was shocked at the scene. Thankfully, she survived and healed up okay. I never knew about her poetry until after her death. I so regret that. I’d love to have copies of them all.
I remember Aunt Harriet as being very kind to me. One of the fondest memories of Aunt Harriet and Uncle Jim is when they lived in Nashville. He was working on the new court yard and underground at the Capitol. Margaret and I spent the weekend with them just after Christmas 1954, the year we got our bootskates. We brought them with us and skated around on her linoleum floors in the small apartment they were renting. As a treat, Uncle Jim took us by bus to see the Grand Old Opry at the Ryman Auditorium. I’ll never forget Little Jimmy Dickens standing on a box singing with such energy and gusto! We also saw the Carter Family perform and remember June singing and Mother Maybelle playing the auto-harp.
Aunt Harriet canned the best vegetable soup ever! She generously opened a quart or two when Jerry and I with two friends, all on motorcycles surprised her with a vist in the country. She was a gracious hostess. I loved her very much.
One more memory of Aunt Harriet– she was going to school in a one-room school house somewhere down a gravel road. I got to go with her one morning, along with Margaret and Sarah. My memory is either Mother or Mamaw packing a lunch pail with leftover breakfast biscuits and baked sweet potatoes. We walked down and up and around along a gravel road, finally vering off onto a grassy yard and up to the school. I remember the pot-belly stove. I can’t remember what kind of seats we sat on or anything else, but that day was one-of-a-kind for me.
Jo, that was probably the same school I attended for four years (first-fourth grade)! We chilled our milk in a fruit jar, that we put into the creek nearby. I remember the stove, the little area where we hung our coats on pegs, AND the water bucket with the dipper that we ALL drank from! I only remember fourth grade, but remember that there were just two of us in that grade. A boy who lived near the Yates farm and myself. I remember the teacher would start with the first grade and work up, giving an assignment. When I finished mine, I drew paper dolls and clothes for them. I had my first crush on that fellow fourth grader! Ah, memories!!!!
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could have all of Aunt Harriet’s poetry published? Maybe as a family we could all contribute toward self-publishing of it, so it could be shared. Maybe it could not only include her work, but the work of others in the family who write so well (Glenn, Barbara, You)????