In one of the many boxes Bruce brought back from his uncle's house we found old letters. One set came from his grandmother's step-grandfather, Gdpa Matthews, Isabella Griswold's 3rd husband. He must have been a very religious man.
I scanned all these letters and hope to transcribe them all soon but it is so tedious a work and it's not like there are not other things to do every day.This letter was sent in November 1935.
"Thanksgiving. 1308 Summit St, Marshalltown, Ia. Nov 28, 1935
May God's choicest blessings rest upon you this day. Me thinks I would like to draw a word picture of what this day means to me. It takes me back in life to the time when my family fathered around the family table on each succeeding thanksgiving. Many years have passed since then. Is my life now a blank, far from it. If any of my unseen friends are thinking of me this day, and I trust some are. They perhaps picture me sitting here alone , my only company being my radio and my dog. All wrong. There is perhaps none among my friends who are happier than I. 42 years ago this past summer I built this house. A house can be created in a few months, but only time creates a home. No I am not alone. The memory of my loving wife long since gone on, are still with me, so is the childish prattle of my children who long since have made homes of their own. I do not live here from necessity, but from choice. Each of my children have urged me to spend my declining years with them. They have lovely homes but they are not my HOME. Here each scratch and mar brings memories of the past. The growing up of children, the departure of those near and dear to me. All this put together spells HOME. Then there are two others always present with me. God and my elder brother Jesus Christ. They are ever with me at all hours of day or night, they are ever present to console and comfort, what a blessing that is to those who really love God.
This morning as I looked out of the window I saw we were facing a blizzard. It was both snowing and blowing. My house was warm, so was my heart. As I looked upon that snow so clean and white, my prayer to Allmighty God was may my heart and life be ever as white as that snow.
Evening. The old song no place like home is only too true. I have just returned from a lovely home, and a bounteous repast. this is one of the days my sons family insist on me being present at their table. They have a much finer house than mine, and beautiful furniture, nothing lacking in what a home should be. Yet with all their fine things, it doesn't measure up to mine. My furniture like the owner is good but old fashioned. I love the things bought years ago. Do you know I wouldn't exchange what I now have for the loveliest set of overstuffed furniture in town.
The complaints of some seems sacrilegious to me, None are going hungry in this depressed land of ours unless they are too lazy to work for the price their work is worth. Where I differ from many is They live to eat, while I eat to live. This morning for breakfast I ate some toast and a cup of coffee. Nothing more. That has been my breakfast for many months, and will be for months to come. This is not from necessity but from choice. Th me my health outweighs my desire for food which my stomach will no longer stand.
Many times I have been asked what do you find to amuse yourself. Do you know I really pity people who ask such questions as that. There is a clog loose somewhere in their make-up, something fails to click properly. Time never drags on my hands, instead it is lack of time that troubles me. No happiness is greater to me than just a nice sociable visit with some of my shut-in friends by the letter route. I ask nothing greater in life than that I may continue to brighten the lives of others for years to come. When I become useless to others I want to be called to my long home. These lines represent the life and wishes of one who is on the declining slope of life. One thing I am thankful for is my steady nerves. Anyone who can sign their name as steadily as this is signed at age of 78 yrs has much to be thankful for. May God be ever with each of you who receive a copy of this my Thanksgiving thoughts.
W H Matthews
William Matthews was born in January 1857 in Marshalltown, Iowa. He married Cora Hartwell's mother, Isabella Griswold on 28 January 1890. He corresponded with Cora's daughter Grace Whelchel Safford with whom he seems to have had much affinity. He died during WWII as witnessed in Stanley Safford's war letters.
