❤❤ ❊❊❊❤❤
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO REMEMBER MY FAMILY MEMBERS, AND FOR NOTING RON'S BIRTHDAY (AND MANY KNOW, BY NOW, THAT DAD CELEBRATED HIS BIRTHDAY ON HIS SON'S, AS WELL) - IT IS SO GRATEFULLY APPRECIATED!
Note: My virtual cemetery, "A Boy and His Dog - A Story" is about my brother and his dog, Trapper, if you are an animal lover and would like to honor Ron's four footed buddy, as well. Thank You in advance -
Ron was the son of Anna Jean Poynter (Ricks) and Ronald Lucien Poynter, Sr. He was born in Chicago, Illinois and weighed in at an astonishing 13 pounds, a fact which got both Mom and son noted in the Chicago Tribune. Ron's hobbies were working on cars, animal welfare and collecting Hollywood autographs and photographs; after being turned down for military service due to health issues, he hoped to own a collector's shop someday, dealing in autographs, sports cards, etc.
During Ron's short time on this earth, he lived in over 30 states and attended over two dozen schools. This lifestyle was both good and bad for him, as it would be for anybody, but Ron made the best of the situation, and as his sister, I can honestly state that I never heard him say a bad word about our parents, much less anybody else.
From a recently discovered manuscript by my mother, Jeannie: "As for Ronnie, he was always, from the first day, the complete opposite of his dad. Quiet, introverted and always thinking about something that he may or may not share with the outside world, I was worried about him...because he was in the wrong family to have such traits." My mother also notes in poetry form about Ron: "Precious One/Little loaf/Your cries remain clear/As the morning/Beside this water." She is speaking of Ron's grave, here - he is buried directly opposite a dam that rushes and crashes constantly. Neither of my parents ever, ever got over the loss of Ron, and I try to find peace, even in my own sorrow that they are all together, once again.
I have been trying to decide which one small story might describe Ron to a tee, and I think that I have it: When we were teenagers and living on a farm in Wisconsin, one of the local farmers was moving away. The man came down to our door and asked us whether we'd want a couple of 'house pets' to look after; he had recently been widowed and was moving to town to stay with one of his children. Ron and I were the only ones home at the time, and of course we assumed that the man probably meant a dog or two, maybe a dog and a cat...we said sure, figuring there'd be no problem if Mom or Dad even asked us about it. Well, the man goes back to his car and brings out FOUR dogs and THREE cats; he had the cats in his arms, and the four dogs - one of which would eventually grow to the size of a small car - were galloping along beside him. Ron's face lit up and I thought, Oh, Lord, but we didn't want the man to maybe take the animals to the shelter or worse, and so we took them, and then proceeded to spend the next week or two hiding them in various corners of the barn, our bedrooms and once, in spur of the moment desperation, in a dry bathtub. When we were finally called on the carpet about it, Ron said, "Well, that's what a farm is for, right? You're lucky I didn't tell him to bring us over a cow." And in a family where we did NOT get cheeky with our parents, my mother about fell over laughing, and we got to keep the whole crowd as long as we were still living in that area. =)...And for years afterward, whenever I wanted to make Ronnie laugh, I'd say, "So, Hoss, you got room for a cow?"
And that's one of my favorite Ronnie stories -
He was survived by his parents, as well as his sisters Lera, Rhonda and Mona; he is remembered as the 'peacemaker' and a young man with a fine sense of humor, and the best Monopoly player ever. Missed today, and always - NOTE: Many of these images are being restored, after being damaged in a fire; the restored images will be published as soon as they are available.
I often find myself trying to make some sense of earlier days within a highly dysfunctional childhood, and I remember something that my brother said to me shortly before his death. We were witnessing the usual cyclones and so forth that came with living the way that we did, and Ron offered a brief, sure opinion of things: "Rhonda, someday we won't know what to do if things are normal."
And as always, my little brother was right, and I truly believe that Ron would understand why this quote often comes to mind when remembering him:
"I often feel...desire for the disorder of an earlier day..." - Jacques Lusseyran, 'AND THERE WAS LIGHT'.
Lastly, I know my brother and he would not want poetry specifically written about him on his memorial page, but he always liked my work about what we lived through and witnessed, because he said it was truthful, and real. This poem is reprinting again, and I thought it would be right for Ron's page, because he and I were alot alike, and he'd turn to me now and then and ask in his Cornbelt drawl, "R, you have got to be writing this down, right?" Yes, I was, Ron -
ROUTE 66 IS MINE
for Jr. and Jeannie
It cannot be taken from me because of unpaid bills:
My mother is reading maps by moonlight and I can hear her, still;
It's my father's Pall Mall smoke and promises, a voice telling him to Go.
It's my blood and heartbeat, all I've ever known -
A jukebox playing out of Bloomington; Cash and Patsy Cline
Are the gospel when you're on the highway and sleeping through the night
On backroads fat with stories. It's black-topped Mississippi sky
And it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is mine:
It's Oklahoma crop to earn our supper, and August so damned much more than hot -
Men talking like my father did. I cannot forget
Them trading words of weary hope: We hear there's work out in L.A.
It's praying with solid Southern Baptists and being blessed with rain
That kept us all the way to Texas. We knew Redemption for a day,
But the devil tracked us down in Chico, and we lost the boy to lonely ground,
And we were lost. We went in circles – it damned near put us down,
But then my father lit a cigarette, and we moved onto the next town
To pick crop for our supper. It was early autumn skies,
On Route 66. That's what I recall when told I have my mother's eyes -
I hold onto what we lived through. It's a lovely rhyme
To tell about the good that came from giving Mexico a try,
And it's all my parents left me, this open road and black topped skies,
But it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is
Mine.
-------
Previously published (Minnetonka Review)
All rights reserved – Rhonda C. Poynter
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO REMEMBER MY FAMILY MEMBERS, AND FOR NOTING RON'S BIRTHDAY (AND MANY KNOW, BY NOW, THAT DAD CELEBRATED HIS BIRTHDAY ON HIS SON'S, AS WELL) - IT IS SO GRATEFULLY APPRECIATED!
Note: My virtual cemetery, "A Boy and His Dog - A Story" is about my brother and his dog, Trapper, if you are an animal lover and would like to honor Ron's four footed buddy, as well. Thank You in advance -
Ron was the son of Anna Jean Poynter (Ricks) and Ronald Lucien Poynter, Sr. He was born in Chicago, Illinois and weighed in at an astonishing 13 pounds, a fact which got both Mom and son noted in the Chicago Tribune. Ron's hobbies were working on cars, animal welfare and collecting Hollywood autographs and photographs; after being turned down for military service due to health issues, he hoped to own a collector's shop someday, dealing in autographs, sports cards, etc.
During Ron's short time on this earth, he lived in over 30 states and attended over two dozen schools. This lifestyle was both good and bad for him, as it would be for anybody, but Ron made the best of the situation, and as his sister, I can honestly state that I never heard him say a bad word about our parents, much less anybody else.
From a recently discovered manuscript by my mother, Jeannie: "As for Ronnie, he was always, from the first day, the complete opposite of his dad. Quiet, introverted and always thinking about something that he may or may not share with the outside world, I was worried about him...because he was in the wrong family to have such traits." My mother also notes in poetry form about Ron: "Precious One/Little loaf/Your cries remain clear/As the morning/Beside this water." She is speaking of Ron's grave, here - he is buried directly opposite a dam that rushes and crashes constantly. Neither of my parents ever, ever got over the loss of Ron, and I try to find peace, even in my own sorrow that they are all together, once again.
I have been trying to decide which one small story might describe Ron to a tee, and I think that I have it: When we were teenagers and living on a farm in Wisconsin, one of the local farmers was moving away. The man came down to our door and asked us whether we'd want a couple of 'house pets' to look after; he had recently been widowed and was moving to town to stay with one of his children. Ron and I were the only ones home at the time, and of course we assumed that the man probably meant a dog or two, maybe a dog and a cat...we said sure, figuring there'd be no problem if Mom or Dad even asked us about it. Well, the man goes back to his car and brings out FOUR dogs and THREE cats; he had the cats in his arms, and the four dogs - one of which would eventually grow to the size of a small car - were galloping along beside him. Ron's face lit up and I thought, Oh, Lord, but we didn't want the man to maybe take the animals to the shelter or worse, and so we took them, and then proceeded to spend the next week or two hiding them in various corners of the barn, our bedrooms and once, in spur of the moment desperation, in a dry bathtub. When we were finally called on the carpet about it, Ron said, "Well, that's what a farm is for, right? You're lucky I didn't tell him to bring us over a cow." And in a family where we did NOT get cheeky with our parents, my mother about fell over laughing, and we got to keep the whole crowd as long as we were still living in that area. =)...And for years afterward, whenever I wanted to make Ronnie laugh, I'd say, "So, Hoss, you got room for a cow?"
And that's one of my favorite Ronnie stories -
He was survived by his parents, as well as his sisters Lera, Rhonda and Mona; he is remembered as the 'peacemaker' and a young man with a fine sense of humor, and the best Monopoly player ever. Missed today, and always - NOTE: Many of these images are being restored, after being damaged in a fire; the restored images will be published as soon as they are available.
I often find myself trying to make some sense of earlier days within a highly dysfunctional childhood, and I remember something that my brother said to me shortly before his death. We were witnessing the usual cyclones and so forth that came with living the way that we did, and Ron offered a brief, sure opinion of things: "Rhonda, someday we won't know what to do if things are normal."
And as always, my little brother was right, and I truly believe that Ron would understand why this quote often comes to mind when remembering him:
"I often feel...desire for the disorder of an earlier day..." - Jacques Lusseyran, 'AND THERE WAS LIGHT'.
Lastly, I know my brother and he would not want poetry specifically written about him on his memorial page, but he always liked my work about what we lived through and witnessed, because he said it was truthful, and real. This poem is reprinting again, and I thought it would be right for Ron's page, because he and I were alot alike, and he'd turn to me now and then and ask in his Cornbelt drawl, "R, you have got to be writing this down, right?" Yes, I was, Ron -
ROUTE 66 IS MINE
for Jr. and Jeannie
It cannot be taken from me because of unpaid bills:
My mother is reading maps by moonlight and I can hear her, still;
It's my father's Pall Mall smoke and promises, a voice telling him to Go.
It's my blood and heartbeat, all I've ever known -
A jukebox playing out of Bloomington; Cash and Patsy Cline
Are the gospel when you're on the highway and sleeping through the night
On backroads fat with stories. It's black-topped Mississippi sky
And it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is mine:
It's Oklahoma crop to earn our supper, and August so damned much more than hot -
Men talking like my father did. I cannot forget
Them trading words of weary hope: We hear there's work out in L.A.
It's praying with solid Southern Baptists and being blessed with rain
That kept us all the way to Texas. We knew Redemption for a day,
But the devil tracked us down in Chico, and we lost the boy to lonely ground,
And we were lost. We went in circles – it damned near put us down,
But then my father lit a cigarette, and we moved onto the next town
To pick crop for our supper. It was early autumn skies,
On Route 66. That's what I recall when told I have my mother's eyes -
I hold onto what we lived through. It's a lovely rhyme
To tell about the good that came from giving Mexico a try,
And it's all my parents left me, this open road and black topped skies,
But it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is
Mine.
-------
Previously published (Minnetonka Review)
All rights reserved – Rhonda C. Poynter
❤❤ ❊❊❊❤❤
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO REMEMBER MY FAMILY MEMBERS, AND FOR NOTING RON'S BIRTHDAY (AND MANY KNOW, BY NOW, THAT DAD CELEBRATED HIS BIRTHDAY ON HIS SON'S, AS WELL) - IT IS SO GRATEFULLY APPRECIATED!
Note: My virtual cemetery, "A Boy and His Dog - A Story" is about my brother and his dog, Trapper, if you are an animal lover and would like to honor Ron's four footed buddy, as well. Thank You in advance -
Ron was the son of Anna Jean Poynter (Ricks) and Ronald Lucien Poynter, Sr. He was born in Chicago, Illinois and weighed in at an astonishing 13 pounds, a fact which got both Mom and son noted in the Chicago Tribune. Ron's hobbies were working on cars, animal welfare and collecting Hollywood autographs and photographs; after being turned down for military service due to health issues, he hoped to own a collector's shop someday, dealing in autographs, sports cards, etc.
During Ron's short time on this earth, he lived in over 30 states and attended over two dozen schools. This lifestyle was both good and bad for him, as it would be for anybody, but Ron made the best of the situation, and as his sister, I can honestly state that I never heard him say a bad word about our parents, much less anybody else.
From a recently discovered manuscript by my mother, Jeannie: "As for Ronnie, he was always, from the first day, the complete opposite of his dad. Quiet, introverted and always thinking about something that he may or may not share with the outside world, I was worried about him...because he was in the wrong family to have such traits." My mother also notes in poetry form about Ron: "Precious One/Little loaf/Your cries remain clear/As the morning/Beside this water." She is speaking of Ron's grave, here - he is buried directly opposite a dam that rushes and crashes constantly. Neither of my parents ever, ever got over the loss of Ron, and I try to find peace, even in my own sorrow that they are all together, once again.
I have been trying to decide which one small story might describe Ron to a tee, and I think that I have it: When we were teenagers and living on a farm in Wisconsin, one of the local farmers was moving away. The man came down to our door and asked us whether we'd want a couple of 'house pets' to look after; he had recently been widowed and was moving to town to stay with one of his children. Ron and I were the only ones home at the time, and of course we assumed that the man probably meant a dog or two, maybe a dog and a cat...we said sure, figuring there'd be no problem if Mom or Dad even asked us about it. Well, the man goes back to his car and brings out FOUR dogs and THREE cats; he had the cats in his arms, and the four dogs - one of which would eventually grow to the size of a small car - were galloping along beside him. Ron's face lit up and I thought, Oh, Lord, but we didn't want the man to maybe take the animals to the shelter or worse, and so we took them, and then proceeded to spend the next week or two hiding them in various corners of the barn, our bedrooms and once, in spur of the moment desperation, in a dry bathtub. When we were finally called on the carpet about it, Ron said, "Well, that's what a farm is for, right? You're lucky I didn't tell him to bring us over a cow." And in a family where we did NOT get cheeky with our parents, my mother about fell over laughing, and we got to keep the whole crowd as long as we were still living in that area. =)...And for years afterward, whenever I wanted to make Ronnie laugh, I'd say, "So, Hoss, you got room for a cow?"
And that's one of my favorite Ronnie stories -
He was survived by his parents, as well as his sisters Lera, Rhonda and Mona; he is remembered as the 'peacemaker' and a young man with a fine sense of humor, and the best Monopoly player ever. Missed today, and always - NOTE: Many of these images are being restored, after being damaged in a fire; the restored images will be published as soon as they are available.
I often find myself trying to make some sense of earlier days within a highly dysfunctional childhood, and I remember something that my brother said to me shortly before his death. We were witnessing the usual cyclones and so forth that came with living the way that we did, and Ron offered a brief, sure opinion of things: "Rhonda, someday we won't know what to do if things are normal."
And as always, my little brother was right, and I truly believe that Ron would understand why this quote often comes to mind when remembering him:
"I often feel...desire for the disorder of an earlier day..." - Jacques Lusseyran, 'AND THERE WAS LIGHT'.
Lastly, I know my brother and he would not want poetry specifically written about him on his memorial page, but he always liked my work about what we lived through and witnessed, because he said it was truthful, and real. This poem is reprinting again, and I thought it would be right for Ron's page, because he and I were alot alike, and he'd turn to me now and then and ask in his Cornbelt drawl, "R, you have got to be writing this down, right?" Yes, I was, Ron -
ROUTE 66 IS MINE
for Jr. and Jeannie
It cannot be taken from me because of unpaid bills:
My mother is reading maps by moonlight and I can hear her, still;
It's my father's Pall Mall smoke and promises, a voice telling him to Go.
It's my blood and heartbeat, all I've ever known -
A jukebox playing out of Bloomington; Cash and Patsy Cline
Are the gospel when you're on the highway and sleeping through the night
On backroads fat with stories. It's black-topped Mississippi sky
And it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is mine:
It's Oklahoma crop to earn our supper, and August so damned much more than hot -
Men talking like my father did. I cannot forget
Them trading words of weary hope: We hear there's work out in L.A.
It's praying with solid Southern Baptists and being blessed with rain
That kept us all the way to Texas. We knew Redemption for a day,
But the devil tracked us down in Chico, and we lost the boy to lonely ground,
And we were lost. We went in circles – it damned near put us down,
But then my father lit a cigarette, and we moved onto the next town
To pick crop for our supper. It was early autumn skies,
On Route 66. That's what I recall when told I have my mother's eyes -
I hold onto what we lived through. It's a lovely rhyme
To tell about the good that came from giving Mexico a try,
And it's all my parents left me, this open road and black topped skies,
But it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is
Mine.
-------
Previously published (Minnetonka Review)
All rights reserved – Rhonda C. Poynter
THANK YOU TO ALL WHO REMEMBER MY FAMILY MEMBERS, AND FOR NOTING RON'S BIRTHDAY (AND MANY KNOW, BY NOW, THAT DAD CELEBRATED HIS BIRTHDAY ON HIS SON'S, AS WELL) - IT IS SO GRATEFULLY APPRECIATED!
Note: My virtual cemetery, "A Boy and His Dog - A Story" is about my brother and his dog, Trapper, if you are an animal lover and would like to honor Ron's four footed buddy, as well. Thank You in advance -
Ron was the son of Anna Jean Poynter (Ricks) and Ronald Lucien Poynter, Sr. He was born in Chicago, Illinois and weighed in at an astonishing 13 pounds, a fact which got both Mom and son noted in the Chicago Tribune. Ron's hobbies were working on cars, animal welfare and collecting Hollywood autographs and photographs; after being turned down for military service due to health issues, he hoped to own a collector's shop someday, dealing in autographs, sports cards, etc.
During Ron's short time on this earth, he lived in over 30 states and attended over two dozen schools. This lifestyle was both good and bad for him, as it would be for anybody, but Ron made the best of the situation, and as his sister, I can honestly state that I never heard him say a bad word about our parents, much less anybody else.
From a recently discovered manuscript by my mother, Jeannie: "As for Ronnie, he was always, from the first day, the complete opposite of his dad. Quiet, introverted and always thinking about something that he may or may not share with the outside world, I was worried about him...because he was in the wrong family to have such traits." My mother also notes in poetry form about Ron: "Precious One/Little loaf/Your cries remain clear/As the morning/Beside this water." She is speaking of Ron's grave, here - he is buried directly opposite a dam that rushes and crashes constantly. Neither of my parents ever, ever got over the loss of Ron, and I try to find peace, even in my own sorrow that they are all together, once again.
I have been trying to decide which one small story might describe Ron to a tee, and I think that I have it: When we were teenagers and living on a farm in Wisconsin, one of the local farmers was moving away. The man came down to our door and asked us whether we'd want a couple of 'house pets' to look after; he had recently been widowed and was moving to town to stay with one of his children. Ron and I were the only ones home at the time, and of course we assumed that the man probably meant a dog or two, maybe a dog and a cat...we said sure, figuring there'd be no problem if Mom or Dad even asked us about it. Well, the man goes back to his car and brings out FOUR dogs and THREE cats; he had the cats in his arms, and the four dogs - one of which would eventually grow to the size of a small car - were galloping along beside him. Ron's face lit up and I thought, Oh, Lord, but we didn't want the man to maybe take the animals to the shelter or worse, and so we took them, and then proceeded to spend the next week or two hiding them in various corners of the barn, our bedrooms and once, in spur of the moment desperation, in a dry bathtub. When we were finally called on the carpet about it, Ron said, "Well, that's what a farm is for, right? You're lucky I didn't tell him to bring us over a cow." And in a family where we did NOT get cheeky with our parents, my mother about fell over laughing, and we got to keep the whole crowd as long as we were still living in that area. =)...And for years afterward, whenever I wanted to make Ronnie laugh, I'd say, "So, Hoss, you got room for a cow?"
And that's one of my favorite Ronnie stories -
He was survived by his parents, as well as his sisters Lera, Rhonda and Mona; he is remembered as the 'peacemaker' and a young man with a fine sense of humor, and the best Monopoly player ever. Missed today, and always - NOTE: Many of these images are being restored, after being damaged in a fire; the restored images will be published as soon as they are available.
I often find myself trying to make some sense of earlier days within a highly dysfunctional childhood, and I remember something that my brother said to me shortly before his death. We were witnessing the usual cyclones and so forth that came with living the way that we did, and Ron offered a brief, sure opinion of things: "Rhonda, someday we won't know what to do if things are normal."
And as always, my little brother was right, and I truly believe that Ron would understand why this quote often comes to mind when remembering him:
"I often feel...desire for the disorder of an earlier day..." - Jacques Lusseyran, 'AND THERE WAS LIGHT'.
Lastly, I know my brother and he would not want poetry specifically written about him on his memorial page, but he always liked my work about what we lived through and witnessed, because he said it was truthful, and real. This poem is reprinting again, and I thought it would be right for Ron's page, because he and I were alot alike, and he'd turn to me now and then and ask in his Cornbelt drawl, "R, you have got to be writing this down, right?" Yes, I was, Ron -
ROUTE 66 IS MINE
for Jr. and Jeannie
It cannot be taken from me because of unpaid bills:
My mother is reading maps by moonlight and I can hear her, still;
It's my father's Pall Mall smoke and promises, a voice telling him to Go.
It's my blood and heartbeat, all I've ever known -
A jukebox playing out of Bloomington; Cash and Patsy Cline
Are the gospel when you're on the highway and sleeping through the night
On backroads fat with stories. It's black-topped Mississippi sky
And it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is mine:
It's Oklahoma crop to earn our supper, and August so damned much more than hot -
Men talking like my father did. I cannot forget
Them trading words of weary hope: We hear there's work out in L.A.
It's praying with solid Southern Baptists and being blessed with rain
That kept us all the way to Texas. We knew Redemption for a day,
But the devil tracked us down in Chico, and we lost the boy to lonely ground,
And we were lost. We went in circles – it damned near put us down,
But then my father lit a cigarette, and we moved onto the next town
To pick crop for our supper. It was early autumn skies,
On Route 66. That's what I recall when told I have my mother's eyes -
I hold onto what we lived through. It's a lovely rhyme
To tell about the good that came from giving Mexico a try,
And it's all my parents left me, this open road and black topped skies,
But it cannot be taken from me.
Route 66 is
Mine.
-------
Previously published (Minnetonka Review)
All rights reserved – Rhonda C. Poynter
Inscription
"Ron" - "Beloved Son and Brother" - December 2, 1960 - July 3, 1981 (Etching of small cabin scene) with Dog-Stream-Mountains
