Lines from Collings Hill. Nellie Hunt Collings

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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Borgo Laureate Series

      ISSN 1082-3336

      Number Ten

      Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Michael R. Collings

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

       www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To the Collings Cousins,

       no matter how many times removed

      INTRODUCTION

      The following pages contain all that I have been able to locate of the many verses written by my paternal grandmother, Nellie Hunt Collings. Most are drawn from one of two sources: 1) a typescript prepared by her youngest surviving son, Ralph Willard Collings (my father), sometime after her death, drawing on her handwritten journals, scrapbook, and other primary materials; and 2) a second typescript of just the poetry, prepared by Ralph Willard even later and mimeographed for a number of her descendants—the copies of this mimeographed version that I have seen are now almost illegible. Unfortunately, as far as I have been able to determine, most of the original materials were subsequently destroyed or have been lost.

      Several months ago, another of Nellie’s grandchildren, Brian Cooper, contacted me about a transcription he had made of the poems for an internet site—as a result of our email discussion, he sent me a copy of his transcription, which I added to the two already available to me. From these varied sources, then, comes this book, composed variously of Grandma Collings’ poetry, segments of her journals that introduce, discuss, or otherwise relate to her poetry, photographs illustrating her life and her history, especially as they relate to the subjects of her poetry, and several life records—including the marriage certificate that, startling to many of her descendents, gives her full name as Nellie Eliza Hunt.

      In part this project has been aimed at the dozens of cousins—first, second, and third, by now—who knew Nellie only as an elderly and increasingly frail woman…or who never knew her at all. By reproducing her verses and bits from her journal, I hope to help us all recover who she truly was, the kind of mind and spirit she preserved throughout her life, the compassion she felt for others’ losses, and the joy she felt in their happiness.

      In a larger part, however, Lines from Collings Hill is a personal tribute as well. I did not know until after her death that my grandmother wrote poetry. No one ever mentioned it; no one ever showed me one of her pieces; I have no recollection of her mentioning it. Of course, at thirteen, I was probably too young when she passed away to care much for poetry, but that perception has changed radically over the years. For over three decades now, I too have turned to poetry in times of sorrow and loss, of joy, of loneliness, of fear. And in doing so, I have discovered connections with my grandmother that I never imagined existed, I have felt nearer to her than ever before, and I have understood in greater detail the strengths that supported her throughout her life.

      —Michael Robert Collings

      Thousand Oaks CA

      September 2001

      TO NELLIE—FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A CENTURY

      How lonely. How distressing.

      A farmstead cabin trapped in snow,

      No faces to see

      But family—

      No other voices, thoughts, minds

      To share her dreams,

      Her words.

      How lonely. How distressing.

      Day upon day no mail nesting in the

      Rural box

      Beyond

      The gate where peeled cottonwood

      Uprights took root

      And grew.

      How lonely. How distressing.

      A daughter lost just as they began

      To mesh in mind—

      A son required

      By war to travel over seas and then

      Returned to wed

      A distant love.

      How lonely. How distressing.

      To watch her one love age and twist—

      To know her home

      Once more as loss—

      To feel a mind grow wretched and

      Infirm—then vague—

      And finally gone

      How lonely. How distressing.

      To know her only through old blurring

      Photographs—see

      Her but not hear her,

      Not partake of laughter, wit,

      Or voice, or heart,

      Or Poetry.

      —Michael R. Collings,

      With Love

      ON FIRST SEEING PHOTOGRAPHS OF MY GRANDFATHER IN HIS MIDDLE-AGE

      He always seems unfinished—cheeks

      Rough with whitened whiskers, hair

      Corn-shock coarse and peppered black

      On white, lips thin and quavering and

      Querulous in coming age. Even when

      I see him young, ambitious, smooth,

      Eager to consume the world;

      Or later, hearth-black by his forge,

      Leather apron glossy in the heat;

      Or later still a hatted silhouette

      Among the corn—even then

      There is about him that which cries

      For grinder, sander, lathe, and polish to

      Finish incompleteness—give him life.

      —Michael R. Collings

      With Love

      LINES FROM

       COLLINGS HILL

I, Nellie Elida Hunt, was born in Monroe, Utah 4 Mar. 1883, the third child of Emily Casto and Moroni Hunt. At the time of my birth my mother was nearly 20, lacking 19 days, my father was nearly 31.1

      * * * * * * *

      Maggie Warnock was my first teacher. We went to school in a small rock building, I think it is known as the “Town Hall.” It is just south of the present school House. There was an old wooden black board, charts, maps, and a water bucket and dipper in one corner of the room. The seats were made of rough lumber, made to hold two children, but my two brothers and I sat in one seat. We marched up to the front of the room, and read our lessons from a chart all in concert:

      Good bye, little rake, Good bye little hoe

      Up in the attic you must go.

      * * * * * * *

      I haven’t mentioned that the Spanish American War took place in 1898. I shall never forget when my brother Alvin woke us up in the night to tell us about the destruction of the “Maine”. You can read about that in your history. I was about 15 then.…

      Going back to the war again, the night they had a farewell party for the boys, I wanted to go to the dance, but my parents wouldn’t let me. Ed