Family Tree Maker's Genealogy Site: User Home Page Book: Gearld Family History: Register Report of Daniel Snyder Morris

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Page 83 of 650

Descendants of Daniel Snyder Morris

7. LOIS PIERCE⁷ MORRIS (DANIEL SNYDER⁶, JAMES E.⁵, ROBERT CLARK⁴, ROBERT JR.³, ROBERT SR.², ANDREW¹) was born May 25, 1898 in Crawfordsville, Indiana. She married FRED FENTON August 6, 1921. He was born February 20, 1895 in Heywood, Lancashire. England.

Child of LOIS MORRIS and FRED FENTON is:

19.

BETTY LOU⁸ FENTON, b. February 18, 1924, Peoriaa, Illinois.

8. ROBERTA MEDA⁷ MORRIS (DANIEL SNYDER⁶, JAMES E.⁵, ROBERT CLARK⁴, ROBERT JR.³, ROBERT SR.², ANDREW¹) was born September 14, 1900 in Crawfordsville, Indiana, and died September 7, 1968. She married (1) GEORGE MEINHARDT. She married (2) JOHN YAKE August 5, 1925. He was born March 18, 1888 in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, and died May 20, 1945 in Fulton, Missouri.

Children of ROBERTA MORRIS and JOHN YAKE are:

	i.		DAVID PAUL⁸ YAKE, b. April 19, 1926, Danville, Illinois; d. April 9, 1965, Fulton, Missouri.
20.	ii.		MARY ELLEN YAKE, b. April 27, 1928, Danville, Illinois; d. October 24, 1963, Fulton, Missouri.

9. MARY EDITH⁷ MORRIS (DANIEL SNYDER⁶, JAMES E.⁵, ROBERT CLARK⁴, ROBERT JR.³, ROBERT SR.², ANDREW¹) was born November 15, 1905 in Crawfordsville, Indiana. She married CHARLES MIKKOLA March 5, 1938. He was born February 21, 1910 in Mohawk, Michigan.

Notes for MARY EDITH MORRIS:
DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW
"All right, clear out now. You will have to start extra early in the morning, if you are going to get to school on time. There will be a lot of snow and it will be slow going. So away with you now, " father said, winding his big silver watch every night promptly at nine o'clock. My father was to be obeyed with no back talk, so we reluctantly took to the stairs, whispering about what a fine time we'd have playing in the snow at school tomorrow.

Mother called anxiously, "If you need more comforters, Helen, they are in the old chest up there. Make sure you will be warm enough, because it's getting colder and it will probably be down to zero by morning."

"We'll be all right mother, we keep each other warm, you know," "All right" mother said, satisfied.

"I wish I had the sled now, that Dan has Promised me for Christmas, for feeding his pigeons, while he is away. There may not be any snow at Christmas," I worried, as I got into bed after our prayers were said.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that ," Helen comforted me. "I'm sure there will be enough snow for you to use your sled. We usually have a white Christmas."

"Well, I'd just like to be sure I'll be able to use my sled when I get it," I said, unconvinced.

Roberta tried to help out, I guess, because she said, kinda sleepy-like, "You go to sleep now and I promise I'll take you to Britton's Hill the day after Christmas and show you how you can slide all the way across the creek."

"All right, but don't forget, thaht's a promise." I was sleepy too, because we always got up early and it made a long day. The blankets were warm and the feather bed deep and soft, so I tucked my cold feet into my long flannel night-gown and subsided into the depths of the warm bed. The wind shrieked and plucked at the drafty old house in great fingering gusts, and the telephone lines sang with a high whine in the intense cold. I lay snuggly warm under mountains of mother's homemade comforters, feeling safe and protected by an older sister comfortably sleeping on either side of me. No harm could come to me I knew and I finally drifted into sleep just as the snow was drifting in the woods and fields.

Next morning we looked out, unbelieving at the world, magically scrubbed clean and white. Despite the early morning dark, we could see that everything had taken on a new appearance because of the capriciously driven snow. "Oh, Roberta, come look how funny everything looks," I urged, as I looked through frost ferns, out of the still darkened window. The dark was not so intense as usual, since the billions of snowflakes, like tiny mirrors, reflected what little light there was.

I could hardly wait for a little more light so we could explore the made-over world, where the quince bush, that in Spring bore exquisite pink blossoms, now looked like a big feather duster, made from the tails feathers of our white turkey gobbler. Upturned boughs of the few evergreens were frosted with white, just as mother dusted doughnuts and pound-cake with powdered sugar. Father's choppingblock, completely covered, looked like a marshmallow made to order for the mean old giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk" that Roberta had read to me. Even the pump looked strange covered with icy white, one arm extended threateningly, like an angy ghost.

We found, when we got outside for a few minutes after breakfast, that there was no longer a rack of firewood out by the the old hickory tree in the yard; instead we were walled in by the fifteen feet of white marble that glittered in the first pink rays of the rising sun, and diamonds glittered from every twig on every tree.

The chicken house was almost buried, and the fowls, strangely quiet. did not seem to be as enthused about the new day as they usually were. Only my brother Dan's pigeons seemed unaware of it, as they rolled a low murmur about, deep in their throats. I hurried to feed them as I had promised him I would, when he left home to work for a nearby farmer.

"We'd better get back in the house and get our things on, so we will be ready when the school-hackcomes," Roberta urged, turning back. Father had said the school-hack would come early, so we began to bundle up against the cold, long ride, and soon father called, "Are you ready? I think I hear Davey coming." But, when Davey came, there was no hack; instead he had taken the wheels off of his big farm wagon and put on the bobs! Now, bobs are two short sets of runners that can make a sled of any wagon. And the sound father had probably been listening for was the bells, for joy of joys, Davey had even found time to fasten sleigh bells to the horse's harness.

"Let's build a snowman or maybe a snow fort," one of the boys proposed. "By the time we get there you will be too cold to want to play outside. You'll be glad enough to get in where it's warm," that was my sister Helen, and of course she was right, as usual. We felt like icicles by the time we got there, and our teeth made chattering sounds like I had heard angry squirrels make, when they were chased by our old cat.

The chalk-dusty warmth of the school was welcome after that long ride, but cold or not, that morning I would not have changed places with any princess - after all, they probably had no sleigh! School was dull, and an anticlimax and the temperature had fallen even lower, so it was too cold to play outside at noon. Our first grade teacher gave us peg-boards with brightly colored wooden pegs that could be arranged in pretty patterns, to use the extra time at noon.

That evening we stamped noisily into the house, kicking snow off our shoes outside the door. Mother rushed to stop the noise, shusing us with a finger to her lips. I was alarmed, because we were usually met with a smile and a hug, especially me, the baby of the family. She pointed toward the stove, still with her finger at her lips. There lay father, sleeping on the floor, in the warmth of the stove, utterly exhausted from shoveling five miles of drifted roads, then walking the same five miles back home.

I wonder if the little we learned that day was worth all the effort the grown folks had put into it?

Child of MARY MORRIS and CHARLES MIKKOLA is:

21.

LOIS SUSAN⁸ MIKKOLA, b. March 10, 1939, Crawfordsville, Indiana.