FIFTY YEARS,  DEAR MATE

A poem written by nephew, J. Clinton Rundles of Washington D.C., for the Golden Wedding Anniversary of Morton T. and Rosa McComb of Huntertown, Indiana.  

March 17, 1889 to March 17, 1939

Five decades, fifty years, dear mate,

What a span of time to contemplate!

Ox carts, heavy wagons on which to go.

Mud, knee deep, and travel so slow.

                        Then, Uncle Sam lent no helping hand

                        To carry love notes thru the farming land.

                        No phones to speed an early date.

                        Hardships untold, the lover had to take. 

                        Spelling bees in the old school room,

                        Taffy parties with the change of the moon.

                        The old square dance with fiddlers fine

                        Gave lovers a chance to meet his kind. 

                        No auto to take his lady dear,

                        Yet take her he did, far or near

                        On the back of his steed they went along

                        Over a muddy road, courting with song.

                        Then a pleasure, to wed and plan for the mate.

                        Few worries and fears as there are of late.

                        No tho’t of doles or your bill of fare.

                        All had plenty, why give a care?

                        In White County lived some kin folk near.

                        A visit with them held most dear.

                        While only a hundred miles out there,

                        Hard travel, home ties, made trips quite rare. 

                        Uncle Mort did go that far to teach.

                        Soon found a pupil, a real peach.

                        Rosa Bush, her sweet maiden name

                        ‘Tis strange but true, did not long remain.

Babies came, their home to share,

An Irish trait, one must declare.

Two daughters sweet, three sons in time

To carry on the family line. 

In spite of help, the farm to run

Mort soon found it much more fun,

Good advice and council to release,

And served his turn as Justice of the Peace.

A Democrat by nature, loyal and true,

He found work in his party to do.

For Bryan and Free Silver, yelled he

And finally ended as township trustee. 

Later he moved to Huntertown,

His wife and children without a frown.

He sold groceries as you’re well aware

Till his children left their Daddy’s care. 

Then he sought freedom in every way,

So sold the store that held him night and day.

Turned to real estate, his garden, or work of any kind

With politics uppermost in his mind.

The New Deal took him by surprise

With Democratic doctrines running counterwise,

But he adopted the party’s goal,

Justified spending, advised the dole.

Little wonder that Mort is young and gay

On this, his Golden Wedding day;

For Rosa, a most devoted helpmate

Does well her part to this late date.

Never did man witness changes so great.

History in the making, thrilling to relate;

Discoveries, inventions, conveniences untold –

Marvel we must, how our land did unfold!

We are thankful for this couple indeed.

For the joys they shared, for their simple creed

May they enjoy life decades more

And then join friends on the other shore.