While sorting through written material. I came across this poem. I’m reluctant to toss an entire file folder of information; I examine the contents before tossing most… into a large black trash bag.

Spending Your Dash ?

I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend.

He referred to the dates on her tombstone–from the beginning to the end.

He noted that first came her date of birth and spoke the following date with tears.

But he said what mattered most of all was the “dash” between those years.

For that “dash” represents all the time that she spent alive on earth…

And now only those who loved her know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own, the car… the house… the cash.

What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our “dash.”

To think about this long and hard… Are there things you’d like to change?

For you never know how much time is left. That can still be rearranged!!

If we could just slow down enough to consider what’s true and real,

And always try to understand the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more,

And love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect, and more often wear a smile…

Remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy’s being read with your life’s actions to rehash…

Would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent your dash?

Linda Ellis

POSTSCRIPT @ 10:30 AM, 10 May 2023: The following is my response to Linda Ellis shortly after I read her comment to yesterday’s message.

SINCERE THANKS, Linda, for your comment attached to my blog message. It was such a delightful surprise to see your message. I apologize for not doing a Google search to see if I could find the name of the author. I typed the poem into my computer from a piece of paper among old family history records (and it said “author unknown”).

Now, Linda, a question: Do you know of an individual, or organization, that would be interested in a large box of poems? I’m eighty-eight years old and I have been collecting poems since I was a teenager. My choice was poems of comfort, love, and faith, and they need to rhyme. At one time, I thought I’d reprint the poems into a website. Now I am in the process of “downsizing” so I can move to an assisted living facility. It grieves me to throw genealogy (and poems?) into the dumpster.

Very best wishes from Lorraine Frantz Edwards