HighCross Farm

I don’t know when

Pray do not ask me how,

Indeed, I’m too astonished

To think of answering you!

Going to heaven!--

How dim it sounds!

And yet it will be done

As sure as flocks go home at night

Unto the Shepherd’s arm."

 - Emily Dickinson

Tribute to Florence

by Katherine Ewing Vogelmann

1/4/08

On April 24, 1916 Hazel Fern Hathaway celebrated her 29th birthday and received one of the best birthday presents ever - her daughter, Florence Hazel Hathaway, who entered this world on that day.  Florence was truly a remarkable person.  She blessed our lives in countless ways.

When I see something of rare beauty it strikes a chord and the artist in me wants to paint it.  Since Florence was one of the most lovely and gracious human beings I have had the privilege to know, it is natural to want to paint a word picture that in some way captures her beauty.

They say that every picture tells a story.  Although Florence was notoriously camera shy, we have many snapshots of her in our home.  These pictures tell a little of the story of Florence's life - of who she was and what was important to her.  Because Florence never wanted to bring undue attention to herself, she tried in vain to avoid the camera.  She also just never seemed to realize that it was impossible for her to take a bad picture.  Invariably in these pictures she has a radiant smile on her face and is often surrounded by her grandchildren.

Florence had a profound love for her family and she loved being a mother and a grandmother.  She never missed an opportunity to tell her children and grandchildren how much she loved them and how very proud she was of them.  She remembered each of her children and their spouses and her grandchildren on their birthdays and at Christmas with a card and a gift.  Good natured and fun loving, Florence was blessed with a lively sense of humor.  She was kindhearted and didn’t have an evil bone in her body.  It was always a lot of fun to be with her.

I would like to present you with some additional pictures that relate to Florence.  These are pictures I carry in my mind.  These pictures are snapshots too, in a way.  Some of the images tend to weave together and intertwine like Celtic knot-work.

The first image I’d like to present to you is that of a long stemmed rose.  The name Florence means “flowering” or “blooming”, picturing a lovely flower in full bloom.  In Celtic, her name means “fair child”.  Her middle name, Hazel, was her mother’s name; Florence had great joy that she was born on her mother’s birthday.  Florence lived up to her name, for she was as lovely as the roses here today.  (Steve tells me that when he was growing up in Brookfield, Mother’s rose garden was her pride and joy.)  Florence’s beauty was more than skin deep, for she was one of those rare creatures who was not only beautiful on the outside, but beautiful on the inside as well.

The second image is of a peaceful snowfall.  During the time Florence was in the hospice we first heard a hauntingly beautiful song called “Peace like a Snowfall”.  Using the imagery of a peaceful snowfall, the song speaks of the kind of peace that only God can give. 

We brought songs for Florence to listen to at the hospice and she enjoyed them immensely, including granddaughter Winona’s beautiful violin “Meditation”.  Florence’s whole countenance lit up when she heard Winona's voice and song.  (On one of her visits to New York, Florence had attended the performance that Winona gave at Carnegie Hall; for her encore Winona asked Florence to stand up to be acknowledged by the audience as she dedicated this song to her.)  

When the news came that Florence had passed on peacefully in her sleep I remembered the snowfall song and reflected that her passing was truly as peaceful as a snowfall.

The third image is of a beautiful rose again, but this a rose among the thorns.  Florence had to face a lot of adversity at a very tender age.  It’s been said that adversity can either make you bitter or it can make you better.  In Florence’s case it was the latter.  You would not have guessed that Florence had faced such difficult circumstances in her life because she had such a sweet spirit. She had that rare combination of delicate beauty coupled with tremendous inner strength.

December 27th happens to be my own mother’s birthday and I have a little tradition I follow on her birthday.  I spend some time reflecting on her life and I try to find some new insight into the wonderful legacy she left me as I thank God for her life.  This year I did something a little different.  I realized that Florence would be together with my mother up in the Highlands for the first time, and since I loved Florence like my own mother, I decided to reflect on both of their lives that day.  I was wondering what I could do to gain some insight into Florence’s life, when it suddenly popped into my head:  the gift she had given us at Christmas of 1996.  I found her letter wherein she explained that she wanted to give us something we didn’t have and something we couldn’t buy.  The only thing she could think of was her memories.  So she gave each of her children and their families that year a handwritten copy of her childhood memoirs - a priceless treasure. 

As I opened her journal, a wave of emotion hit me as my eyes recognized her familiar near perfect penmanship.  The story that unraveled before my eyes would have made an engaging novel or movie.  I saw Florence’s sweet and vibrant spirit in the midst of sometimes tragic circumstances. The image of the rose among the thorns emerged; her beauty seemed all the more lovely against this backdrop.  

She told of losing her dear mother at the tender age of 2 to the flu pandemic of 1918.  Her baby brother had just been born the month before, it was a week before Christmas and her father, suffering from the same flu, had to get up out of his sickbed and make the burial arrangements.  He was left with five children to raise, failing health, and Florence speculated, a broken heart.

She told how her father had struggled desperately to keep the family together, but it became increasingly difficult as his health deteriorated over the months.  Eventually he was forced to farm out some of the children to temporary homes.  She recounted how one time when she was staying at one of these homes, her older brother rode his bicycle to visit her.  When it was time for him to go, Florence cried and screamed, running down the road after his bicycle, pleading through tears, “Take me with you!”

Eventually when her father realized he was not long for this world, he made a difficult decision - to place Florence and her two sisters in an orphanage.  He couldn’t bear to tell Florence, then three, that he was leaving her there.  She went with him on the long drive to the orphanage for what she thought was just a visit.  I read Florence’s account of how a nurse in a white uniform approached her after dinner and asked if she’d like to see the other children.  Florence trustingly took her hand and walked up a long stairway and down a long hall to a room with many children.

After awhile, Florence decided it was time to go back to her daddy.  She retraced her steps down the long hallway which was now very dark, and came to two dark stairways.  Confused, not remembering which stairway she had taken to get there, and fearing the dark, she turned back to the nursery where she was put to bed with the other children.  It would be months before she would see her father again.  Although her sisters were at the same orphanage, she was separated from them, too, seeing them only at a distance during mealtimes.  She explained that her father had to do it this way because he knew that she would scream and cry for him when he left.  Months later when he came to visit her, she did just that when it was time for him to go.