Jane Long----Self-Proclaimed Mother of Texas

      Jane Wilkinson was born in Maryland in 1798.  By 1813, she was orphaned and living with an older sister near Natchez, Mississippi.  At age sixteen, she married James Long, a nineteen-year-old Army surgeon who served with Andrew Jackson’s troops at the Battle of New Orleans.  The young couple bought a plantation near Vicksburg and Jane had her first child, Ann, in November of 1816. James, very industrious, operated the plantation, set up a medical practice at Port Gibson, and became a merchant in Natchez.

     Along with many of the South's landed gentry, James Long was upset about the Adams-Onis Treaty of 1819 (also called the Florida Treaty), which transferred ownership of Florida and established the border between the United States and New Spain.  At the time, New Spain consisted of Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, Nevada, California, and parts of Oregon and Utah.  The treaty was worked out by John Quincy Adams, the U.S. Secretary of State, and Louis de Onis of Spain. Florida was ceded to the United States and the border definition and other provisions of the treaty were very generous to the United States.  Spain was in a poor negotiating position, desperately fighting a revolution in Mexico and losing power in Europe.

     Prominent citizens in Mississippi, however, wanted the cotton land in Texas and decided they would take matters in their own hands.  They financed and recruited a three-hundred man army and placed James Long in charge.  A Mexican citizen, Jose Felix Trespalacios, joined the group and became friends with Long.  The politically astute Trespalacios had long been involved in the Mexican uprising against Spain, and shared his knowledge with the filibusters.  The Long Expedition set out in June of 1819 and, with little opposition, occupied Natchcogdoches.

     Jane Long did not accompany her husband because she was in the advanced stages of her second pregnancy.  Her new baby, Rebecca, was born on June 16, 1819, and two weeks later Jane left for Texas with her daughters and Kian, a slave girl.  After a difficult trip, she arrived in Natchcogdoches in August, only to have to flee in October.  The Spanish army decided to put an end to the foolishness in East Texas and sent a detachment to remove the filibusters from Spanish soil.

    During the ensuing travel, the baby Rebecca died and James Long took Jane, six-year-old Ann, and the twelve-year-old slave girl, Kian, to Bolivar Peninsula, just across the channel from Galveston Island.  Jane wrote of having dinner with Jean Lafitte on Galveston Island, as James tried unsuccessfully to obtain Lafitte’s help against the Spanish.

     After Mexico won its independence from Spain, James Long stubbornly continued his filibustering efforts.  He and Jane made a fund-raising trip to New Orleans and returned to Bolivar.  He left a pregnant Jane there in September of 1821, as he went on a mission to occupy La Bahia at Goliad.  He promised to return in a month and Jane promised to wait for him as long as it might take.  Unknown to Jane, Long was captured and taken to jail in Mexico City.

     Because of dwindling supplies, the other occupants of Bolivar abandoned the settlement, but Jane stubbornly stayed on to wait for her husband.  She and the girls fired a small cannon daily to make hostile Indians believe the fort was still occupied.  Near starvation, the women survived by pure determination, raw courage, and raw oysters.

     On December 21, 1821, Jane gave birth to her third daughter, Mary James. She claimed this to be the first Anglo child born in Texas.  It was bitter cold and the child was born inside an ice-crusted tent, with only Kian and little Ann to help.  The group stayed through the winter, vainly awaiting James’ return.  Twenty-nine-year-old Dr. James Long would not return—he was “accidentally” shot in a Mexico City jail and died on April 8, 1822.

     James Long almost certainly met Jean Lafitte when they both served under Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans.  If James William Hayes, the first husband of Margaret Theresa Wright, died of wounds in that battle, Dr. Long may well have treated him.  There is evidence that Jose Felix Trespalacios paid a guard to “accidently” shoot Long in Mexico City.  No motive is suggested, but Long must have possessed embarrassing or compromising information about Trespalacios.  The world was a smaller place, there were fewer people, and politics makes strange bedfellows.

     When Jane learned of her husband’s death, she made her way to San Antonio and applied for a pension to the new Governor.  Guess who?  Long’s old friend, the wily Jose Felix Trespalacios.  After ten unsuccessful months, she gave up and moved back in Louisiana, where she lived with her sister’s family.  In 1824, little Mary James, the Texas baby, died and Jane and her family moved back to Texas.  Jane received a league of land in Fort Bend County and a labor in Waller County from Stephen F. Austin, but chose not to live on the property.   Until 1830 she lived in Sam Felipe, the bustling colonial capital of Texas.

     In 1832, Jane bought a boarding house in Brazoria and operated it for five years.  She claimed romantic connections with several prominent Texans, and these may have happened while she owned the boarding house.  Jane was thirty-eight years old when Texas won its independence, a lady of some means who owned a boarding house and several thousand acres.  That same year, Sam Houston was forty-two, Ben Milam was forty-seven, Mirabeau Lamar was thirty-seven and William Barrett Travis was twenty-six.  She suggested romantic ties with all of them.

     Ben Milam was killed by a sniper in December, 1835, but she knew him before the revolution.  They lived in the same vicinity for several years.  Buck Travis was younger than she, but he was a rounder who kept records of his sexual conquests, and was not the least bit discriminating in his selection of partners.  He and Jane certainly knew each other, and if she was agreeable, Buck would never let a little thing like age difference slow him down.  That union probably didn’t happen, because there is no record of Jane ever having contacted gonorrhea.

     According to Jane, Sam Houston and Mirabeau Lamar both proposed marriage to her.  No one can prove they didn’t.  Neither would have known her before the revolution, but both were in her vicinity after.   They were such different personalities, and so intensely disliked each other, it is hard to imagine them vying for the same woman.   Perhaps Jane was one source of their mutual distrust.

     Lamar spent a lot of time with Jane, working on his history of Texas book, which he wrote in 1837 while the revolution was fresh in his mind.  Jane, knowing her words were being recorded for posterity, might have embellished her stories with events that she felt should have happened.  She and Lamar might have had a real love affair, or she might have imagined one.   They were the same age, both unattached and lonely, and Jane was wealthy.

     Regardless of her wealth, life had been tough for Jane.  She almost starved during the winter of 1821, while she waited for her husband’s return.  She lost two baby girls before they were three years old.  She operated a boarding house, raised cotton and cattle, ran a prosperous plantation, traded real estate, and owned nineteen slaves at the start of the Civil War.  She did all this when women were considered second class citizens and not allowed to vote.   Frontier Texas was especially hard on women, and Jane didn’t need to embellish her story.  She was a strong-minded, strong-willed woman who lived in a colorful, exciting, and very dangerous time.  

      Kian, the faithful slave girl, had been allowed to marry and stayed with Jane’s family until her death.  She had four children, whose descendents may still live in the Richmond area.

       Jane died at age 82 in 1880 and is buried in Richmond, near the site of the league of land deeded her by Stephen F. Austin, the Father of Texas and, according to Jane, another of her suitors.

Two Little Mothers of Texas

Believe me, you'd rather see a picture of a building than either of these women.

     While doing research on Jane Long, believed to be the “Mother of Texas,” I discovered that Sam Houston, in a speech in 1856 or so, named Margaret Theresa Wright the “Mother of Texas.”  I wondered how could there be two “Mothers of Texas.” 

     Upon further investigation, I learned that Jane Long had designated herself the “Mother of Texas.”  She based this claim on the birth of her daughter at Galveston on December 21, 1821, which Jane decided was the first Anglo child born on Texas soil.  I imagine she repeated the story so often that she got to believing it.  According to the census records between 1807 and 1826, Jane was way down the list of English-speaking mothers in Texas.

     We’ll get back to Jane Long.  For now, understand that almost everything we know about her comes from stories she told Mirabeau Lamar for his book about the history of Texas.  You should not doubt the veracity of this information, anymore than you doubt what I tell you about being a “hell of a man” when I was young.

     Margaret Theresa Wright’s claim to the “Mother of Texas” title stems from her activities during the Texas Revolution, immediately after the Goliad Massacre.  Maggie was an abandoned wife at the time, living alone on a league of land adjacent to the Guadalupe River, about five miles from Victoria.  A few of the Goliad survivors, wounded and hungry, hid in the woods near the river on her property.   A detachment of General Urrea’s Mexican soldiers camped near her house as they searched for the rebels.

     Maggie discovered the survivors and worked out a way to feed them and nurse the wounded back to health, virtually under the nose of the Mexican army.  In a hollow tree, the Texians left notes advising her of their needs, and she carried supplies for them in her buckets as she went back and forth to the river for water.  Punishment for what she was doing was death, and she risked her life daily to help the men.  She even stole a gun from the Mexicans and gave it to the rebels.

     Imagine the scene in the Mexican camp.

     Sergeant Lopez, noticing Private Arreando has no weapon.  “Private, you miserable s.o.b., just exactly where is your piece?”

     “Sir, which piece do you mean, sir?  The private thinks he has all his pieces right here, sir.”

     “You complete idiot!  Privates are not allowed to think.  I’m speaking of your rifle.  Where is your rifle?  You cannot have misplaced it.  That is against army regulations.  Where is it?”

     “Sir, the private don’t know, sir.  The private went in the woods to take a dump and leaned his gun against a mesquite tree.  When the private came back, the gun, she was gone, sir.”

     “All right, Arreando!  That’s it!  You know the drill.  Get out in the middle of the parade ground; hold your rifle out with your left arm, and your male part in your right hand.  Say, ‘This is my rifle, this is my gun.  This is for fighting, this is for fun.’  Keep doing that till Thursday.”

     “Sir, the private don’t have no rifle to hold out, sir.”

      After being abandoned by her husband in 1835, Margaret Wright lived in isolation on a land grant she had obtained as a widow.  She had been married twice previously—James Williams Hays, her first husband died in 1812, and may have been killed in the Battle of New Orleans.  Her second union, a common law affair, was with Felix Trudeau, the commander of the garrison at Natchitoches, Louisiana.  Trudeau died in 1822 and soon after, Margaret moved to Texas with her five children. 

     She applied as a widow for a league of land in the De Leon Colony near Victoria, and married John David Wright in 1828, before the final title to the land was granted.  She and Wright had two daughters, but the marriage was unhappy and he stayed gone much of the time.  He abandoned her in 1835 and moved to the Rio Grande valley and lived for seven years in Mexico to escape prosecution for bad debts.

     In 1842, Maggie’s errant husband returned to take over her ranch.  Wright was, in today’s jargon, a real piece of work.  He had secretly obtained title to her land grant before he left for Mexico.  Wright discovered, in his absence Maggie had purchased an additional half league of land and deeded six hundred forty acres of it to her son, Peter Hays. Wright was furious and filed suit to reclaim the property, even though he had never owned it.  He lost the suit and he lost the first appeal.

     Before the second appeal was heard, in 1847, Maggie’s son, Peter Hays, was killed in an ambush.  Margaret was convinced that her husband did it.  She filed for divorce on March 6, 1848, charging Wright with habitual cruelty, fraudulent land transfer, and the murder of her son.  Divorces were hard to come by back then, but after a bitter court battle and three appeals to the Texas Supreme Court, Margaret was granted a divorce and awarded half of the joint property, over 5,500 acres and almost 600 head of cattle.

     Margaret Theresa Robertson Hays Trudeau Wright may deserve the title, “Mother of Texas.”  Sam Houston bestowed the name on her in a campaign speech in Victoria as he ran for Governor.  She was probably the first female in Texas to register a cattle brand, the C T, which she registered with the Republic of Texas in 1838.  She risked her life to help Texas soldiers during the revolution.  In 1848, she was granted what may have been the first divorce in the new state of Texas.  She was a courageous Texas pioneer and patriot, a long suffering wife, and the mother of seven children.  She died at age 89 in Victoria on October 21, 1878. 

You may pretend Nicole is either Maggie or Jane.  Ain't she cool?

      We will examine Jane Long’s claim in the next post.

Panchita--Angel of Goliad--Conclusion

Present day view from a cannon port at the La Bahia Presideo near Goliad.

     General Urrea was away in Victoria when Santa Anna’s orders to execute the prisoners at Goliad were carried out by Colonel Portillo on Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836.  A young German boy, Herman Ehrenberg, managed to escape the massacre by running behind the thick smoke caused by the executioner’s muskets and diving into the San Antonio River.  He had been shot at, slashed with a saber, splattered with the blood of his comrades, and shot at again, but he escaped into the river and the wilderness beyond.  About thirty other prisoners managed to escape the slaughter.

     Three weeks later, sunburned, disoriented, thirsty, and half starved, Ehrenberg stumbled into a Mexican patrol and was recaptured near Matagorda.  General Urrea recognized the young German in a group of captives, and was delighted to see he had survived.  The general laughed, “…my little Prussian!”  Herman Ehrenberg lived a long and prosperous life and his writings give us much insight into the massacre at Goliad and the disastrous Runaway Scrape that followed.

     Panchita was travelling with Captain Alavez as General Urrea’s troops headed east, finding little resistance.  Most American settlers abandoned their homesteads and were dashing for the safety of Louisiana in what was called the “Runaway Scrape.” The settlers who remained were Mexican sympathizers and welcomed the troops, telling them of rebel movements, feeding and watering their horses, and wishing them well. 

     When word of the defeat and capture of Santa Anna reached General Urrea, he vowed to continue the fight.  The Mexicans had over 2500 seasoned troops in Texas and Urrea had not met a single defeat at the hands of the Texians.  He knew it would be a simple matter to conquer Houston’s rag-tag little army.  He was ambitious, had no respect or affection for Santa Anna, and saw the opportunity to further his career.  General Filasola, an Italian mercenary hand-picked by Santa Anna as second in command, overruled the young General.  He issued orders for complete withdrawal, thereby saving the life of Santa Anna and ceding Texas to the rebels.

     After the withdrawal, Captain Alavez was sent back to Mexico City, where he quickly abandoned the intelligent, beautiful, and strong-willed Panchita.   This should come as no surprise--Panchita had amply demonstrated that she was not good for his military career.  As fantastic as she may have been in bed, she was too idealistic, too moralistic, too headstrong, and too out-spoken to be accepted as an officer’s wife.  Telesforo, very ambitious, eventually worked his way to the rank of Colonel.

     Women, then and now, tend to seek out attractive, worldly men who have much experience in affairs of the heart.  The more charming, handsome, experienced, and desirable to other women, the better.  Once they discover such a man, they latch on to him and settle down expecting to live happily ever after.   When their man continues his normal behavior and starts screwing the neighbor ladies, they are surprised and devastated.  Telesforo found a new playmate and dumped Panchita exactly as he had dumped Augustina and his two children.  Someone else was scratching that little place behind his ear.  Same place—same results--different toe. 

     Panchita, destitute, made her way back to Matamoros and was taken in by families who knew of her kindnesses to the prisoners.  She disappeared from history at this point and, for a time, no one knew what became of her.

     In 1936, Elena Zamora O’Shea wrote of her experiences while teaching school on the Santa Gertrudis Division of the King Ranch, during 1902 and 1903.  After class, two older Kineros came to visit with her once a week.  She read to them from Mexican newspapers and told them of the Texas history classwork her students were doing.  When she mentioned the Goliad massacre, they became very excited and asked questions about ”the Angel of Goliad.”

     One of the Kineros was Matias Alverez, who said he was the son of Telesforo and Panchita.  He took the teacher to meet his mother, Dona Panchita, the Angel of Goliad, who was then bed-ridden in her nineties.  According to O’Shea, “she died on the King Ranch and is buried there in an unmarked grave….Old Captain King and Mrs. King knew and respected her identity.”

     Matias Alverez, the son of Panchita, had eight children, among them a daughter named Rita who married a man named Quintanilla.  Their daughter, Tomasa Alvarez Quintanilla, married Lauro Cavasos, who would become the foreman of the Santa Gertrudis Division of the ranch.

     Tomasa and Lauro Cavasos’ son, Bobby, was an All-American running back for Texas Tech, a Kleberg County Commissioner, and foreman of the Laureles Division of the King Ranch.  His brother, Richard E. Cavasos, was the first Hispanic to become a Four Star General in the U.S. Army, and another brother, Dr. Lauro Cavasos, was president of Texas Tech University and Secretary of Education under Presidents Reagan and Bush.  Dr. Cavasos was the first Hispanic to serve in the U.S. Cabinet.

     There is little doubt that these are descendents of Panchita, but she was not pregnant when she returned, alone and penniless, to Matamoros.  If Telesforo was the father of this clan, as Matias claimed, then he must have returned and re-united with Francisca.   While there is no record of a wedding,  he may have visited often enough to have impregnated her between assignments in the army.  On the other hand, Panchita may have married a man named Alvarez at some later date and he may have sired Matias and his brother Guadalupe.  That could explain the change of name from Alavez to Alvarez.

     The story is fascinating.  All three of the Cavasos’ brothers spent some of their formative years in Lubbock, attending Texas Tech and absorbing the atmosphere of the High Plains.  I cannot help but wonder—was it Panchita’s genes or the clear atmosphere and fresh air of the Panhandle?  Perhaps the combination of the two.    

A Series on the Women of Texas--Francisca Panchita Alavez--The Angel of Goliad

The Presidio at Goliad.  Walls three feet thick and ten feet high.  Fannin abandoned this fortress and allowed his troops to be trapped on the open plains at Coleto Creek.

     

  If Santa Ana had stayed in Mexico and sent the very competent General Jose de Urrea to Texas with orders to “bring me the heads of Sam Houston and Stephen Austin,” the Texas Revolution would have stalled in its tracks. The skulls of Houston and Austin would be artifacts in a museum somewhere in Mexico City, probably next to the Texian flag taken from the Alamo.  The “Napoleon of the West” however, had far too much ego for such foolishness, and was determined to gain the glory involved in quashing the rebellion, no matter how many peons he had to sacrifice.

     To keep General Urrea out of the limelight, Santa Ana sent him and 1200 men to Matamoros, with orders to move into coastal Texas and clean up any pockets of resistance.  The emperor, in the meantime, would lead the bulk of his army to center stage at San Antonio and take out the twenty-six year old, gonorrhea-ridden Buck Travis and his garrison at the Alamo.  Santa Ana’s intention was to put all rebels to the sword—take no prisoners and give no quarter.  General Urrea, a much better soldier, disagreed and considered executing prisoners a blueprint for disaster.

     Telesforo Alavez, a young captain, was paymaster for General Urrea.  Alavez had enlisted in the Mexican Army as a private when he was eighteen years old and, by age thirty-three, had worked his way up through the ranks to captain.  Anyone with military experience knows this guy was special.  Moving through the ranks from enlisted man to commissioned officer requires intelligence, ability, ambition, tact, polish, and good luck.  Captain Alavez was devilishly handsome, immaculately dressed, and very charming.  Women loved him.

     The young captain was married.  His wife, Maria Augustina de Pozo, lived in Toluca with their two children.  In 1834, Telesforo abandoned this family and continued his career in the military, eventually going off to Texas to fight the rebels.  Documents show Augustina tried unsuccessfully for years to get some sort of pension from the army.  She and the children were penniless and starving.

   Free of family responsibilities, Captain Alavez still required that precious commodity only a warm and willing woman can provide. The Mexican army allowed some officers to bring travelling companions, and he was accompanied to Texas by a black-eyed beauty named Francisca, who was assumed to be his wife.  Francisca (Panchita) Alavez generated a lot of attention.  For starters, she was knockout good-looking.  According to those who wrote about her at the time, she was “a high-born, black-eyed beauty.”  Barely twenty years old, she was idealistic, moralistic, and had the kind of beauty that caused lonely soldiers to lie awake at night and bite tent pegs in two.

      Accounts of a high-born woman rescuing Texian prisoners from certain death during the march of General Urrea’s forces are well documented.   From military records following Captain Alavez’s movements, we can surmise that Panchita was most likely that woman.  She was called “Senora Alavez” by one survivor; “Madame Captain Alverez” by another; “Pacheta Alevesco, wife of Captain A.” by yet another.  Some referred to her simply as the “wife of a Mexican officer.”

     General Urrea’s forces fought and won skirmishes at Copano, San Patricio, Agua Dulce, Refugio, and Victoria before capturing the inept Col. Fannin’s entire command at the battle of Coleto Creek.  With the exception of Coleto Creek, Panchita Alavez  was present at all these locations and was almost certainly the lady who intervened on behalf of the prisoners. 

     In Victoria, she and a priest stood between the firing squad and a group of Texians, telling the Mexican officer in charge that he would have to shoot her first to shoot the prisoners. The prisoners were spared.  She was instrumental in having prisoners relocated to Matamoros before they could be executed.  Later, she saved more than forty condemned men at Goliad, then proceeded to harangue Colonel Portillo unmercifully as he marched almost four hundred prisoners to their doom.

     Imagine the scene in Captain Alavez’s tent that night.

     “Francisca, you must cease to interfere with army business.  We must follow the orders of Generalissimo Santa Ana and execute all prisoners.   I will not allow you to interfere again.”

     “You only call me Francisca when you are angry.  Oh Tele, I wish you would call me your little Panchita.  I would be nice to you if you called me Panchita.”

      “Pay attention to me!  You should not have called Col. Portillo a ‘scum-sucking dog.’  He is my superior officer and can make life miserable for me.”

     “I would make life very nice for you if you called me your little Panchita.”

     “You cannot continue to—how nice?”

     “Very, very nice.  How would you like that little place behind your ear scratched?   You know what I mean.  I'll scratch it with my toe”

     “Ooh—my little Panchita—you know what I like.  Just one thing.  Can we hold down the noise tonight?  The quartermaster tells me the army is running out of tent pegs.”

     To be continued.....

Fannin's last request, "Boys, I'd appreciate it if you would not shoot me in the head," was ignored.  He was shot several times in the head  while he sat blindfolded in a chair in this courtyard.  I expect the WPA added the sidewalks and grass about a hundred years later.

          

     

    

    

Carol McLaughlin Hardin March 4, 1940--November 30, 2012

     I had intended to start a series on Texas women with this post.  My plan was to start with Panchita Alavez and work my way through several interesting women—many of them were not exactly ladies—involved in the history of this great state.  The sudden death of my sister changed my plan.  I will start the series with a bit about her and continue later with more well-known people.

     My sister was four years younger than I, so I knew her all her life.  I watched her grow up—she was Carol Ann then—we all change identities as we grow older, and she was no exception.  She was a slender girl, a bit of a tomboy with dark hair, freckles, and brown eyes.  Carol Ann was vivacious and quick to laugh.  She was the baby of the family and grew up in the shadow of two over-protective brothers.

     By the time Carol Ann entered high school there wasn’t a lot of tomboy left.  She’d become a beautiful young lady, with a tiny waist and lovely curves.  My brother Jerry and I knew she needed a lot more protection than she wanted.  Carol Ann was strong-willed, stubborn, and determined to do things her way, which gave us even more reason to “protect” her.  We managed to survive that time, and, while in college, she brought home a young fellow from Central Texas named Mel Hardin.  Jerry and I were pleased.  Mel was more nearly acceptable than most of the other dudes she’d gone out with.

     I don’t remember most calendar dates, but I can tell you where I was on April 2, 1961.  I was at Mountain Home, Texas, watching Mel and Carol Ann become Mr. and Mrs. Hardin.  After that, I didn’t get to see my sister as often as I would have liked.  She had become Carol Hardin, young housewife.

     A year or so later, Jerry and I drove down to visit our little sister.  She and Mel lived in a tiny house on Elm Pass Road, near Bandera.  Mel worked on a dairy farm, getting up and milking cows at 3:00 AM every day and Carol Ann, eight months pregnant, fixed his breakfast.  I remember her shortness of breath as she worked around that gigantic stomach, bending over to take biscuits out of the oven.  What had become of my curvaceous little sister?

     Not long after the baby was born, Mel surrendered to preach and he and his little family started a series of moves.  He went from church to church and school to school.  Pastor Mel continued his education as they moved and Carol had two more babies.  During the next several years, they moved all over Texas; Three Rivers, Woodsboro, Blooming Grove, Canyon, Dalhart, and finally Roswell, New Mexico.  Our visits became less frequent when they moved to California, but we loved them no less and kept in touch.

     Carol had now become Carol Hardin, pastor’s wife, doing the things expected of someone in her position.  She cooked for various affairs of the church, helped with Sunday school and the nursery, and generally did whatever needed doing to help Mel with his ministry and his schooling.  As time passed, she developed the idenity that would become known as “Hardy” to her friends, her pupils and her grandchildren.  Hardy was a cross between a mother hen and a drill instructor.  It was a routine matter for her to plan, organize, and cook a meal for a hundred people.

     I got to know Hardy when she and Dr. Hardin returned to the Hill Country.  Her children have children of their own, and she and Mel moved here to be near them and to slow down and enjoy life.  Hardy continued her life-long role, supporting her husband.  She nurtured her children and grandchildren, entertained deacons, cooked meals that would make a chef jealous, and lived as she always had, in the center of her kitchen, her family, and her church.  Last year, in April, we went back to that little chapel in Mountain Home to celebrate Carol and Mel’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.  

      For other people, she has been Carol Ann, and Carol Hardin, and Hardy, and wife, and mother, and aunt, and teacher.   For me, she was not any of those people.  She will always be my little sister—the baby of the family.