Dateline: April 6, 1925.

Across the Atlantic, dark, foreboding clouds gathered.  Benito Mussolini was tightening his evil grip on Italy, and Adolf Hitler had just published Mein Kampf from his prison cell in Bavaria. The British Empire still held dominion over a quarter of the globe, and in Paris, Josephine Baker had just danced her way into stardom.

In the United States, Calvin Coolidge was president. He spoke softly, but his policies were shaping a nation eager to forget the Great War. The national headlines spoke of the Scopes Trial, the recent Tri-State Tornado that tore through the Midwest, leaving death and destruction in its wake, and the tragic tale of Floyd Collins who died, trapped in a Kentucky cave for 17 days.  The Happiness Boys belted out “How Do You Do?” to the delight of those fortunate enough to have access to a radio.  Readers eagerly awaited the arrival of The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tale of the glitter and disillusionment of the age. Just four years after women gained suffrage, Wyoming had just elected the first woman governor.  Al Capone’s cowardly thugs were that very day beating a brave reporter Robert St. John, who dared to speak the truth about organized crime in the Windy City.

In Mississippi, Governor Henry L. Whitfield had taken office the year before. A former college president and firm believer in education, he was a rare breed in politics—a man who favored reform, equity in schooling, and better care for the mentally ill. He saw education as a way out of poverty and ignorance.

Those are the facts.  At this point, I have to invite you into my imagination to envision another momentous event unfolding in this very county.  In fact, I pass the actual spot every time I go to Meadville.   I have to take the known and embrace the possibilities of that April day, one hundred years ago today.

Come with me to the pine forests of Franklin, County, Mississippi, near the sawmill town of Quentin; far from the headlines and hustle-and-bustle of the rest of the world, where another story is unfolding—quieter, smaller, yet just as significant in the grand scheme of time.

The dogwoods are in full bloom, a blanket of snow-white blossoms glowing like scattered lace against the dark green of the forest. Yellow jasmine twines through fence posts and tree limbs, its honey-sweet aroma wafting through the morning breeze. The rich ‘earthy’ scent of the garden also drifts through the air, promising a bountiful harvest to be gathered from the neat rows. A few hens scratch under a chinaberry tree, while one cackles loudly, to announce her daily contribution for the little Jones family.  The gentle cow has provided a steaming hot bucket of fresh, creamy milk earlier, and now grazes contentedly while her calf eagerly takes his morning meal.

It is a Monday, and in all honesty, Charlie Jones has probably walked to the sawmill where he works as a car knocker… a mechanic of sorts.  But I am going to say maybe he stayed at home that day.  Maybe he was called on to fetch some woman to act as a midwife.

I picture him scooping up little Geneva in his strong arms, her bare feet dangling. Though not quite two, her days as the baby of the family were drawing to a close. She wouldn’t mind; she and Edna Mae would share a closeness usually reserved for twins. Charlie may well have quietly called Tony and Mildred—four and three—to come help shell corn for the chickens. I imagine them scampering to keep up with his long strides. 

Inside the modest farmhouse—scrubbed clean and simply furnished—there is a sense of order, of quiet readiness. On the water shelf sits a galvanized bucket with a long-handled dipper beside it, an enamel washpan, a bar of homemade lye soap, and a flour-sack towel hung from a nail. 

In one corner is a heavy wooden trunk.   Stored in “Papa’s trunk” is a double wedding ring quilt stitched by his mother Alice McDavid Jones—exquisite work, each patch no bigger than a thumb, the tiny stitches a marvel of patience. That trunk also holds a few faded photographs, the marriage license of Charlie Jones and Malinda Touchstone dated May 15, 1919, Charlie’s Army discharge papers—and perhaps even his uniform from the Great War. This morning, a neat bundle of baby items has been hastily retrieved, leaving the lid open. The contents inside now stand witness to a new chapter in the Jones family story.

The warmth from the cookstove fills the room. A flannel blanket lies ready to swaddle the expected visitor. Then comes that unmistakable moment—soft and new, yet ageless and eternal—the sound of a baby’s first cry.

Someone—maybe one of’ Malindy’s sisters —opens the door just a crack and calls out, her voice full of quiet joy: “It’s a girl, with a head full of black hair…”

No one knew then that this baby girl would grow to see nearly a century of change. That she’d outlive everyone in that house. That she’d be known far and wide for her wit, her grit, her spontaneous poetry, her phenomenal memory, her faith, and her fierce devotion to her family. That she’d be called “Punch” all her life, and that even her nickname would have its own legacy.

Outside, the hens continued to scratch under the chinaberry tree. Somewhere, far away, the world’s great dramas played out. But in that small home on that Mississippi farm, time paused. A baby had been born, and everything was new.

Now, one hundred years later, I pause to honor that quiet April day when my mother took her first breath. The world she was born into has vanished in many ways, but its strength and simplicity still echo in me. I see it in the flowers that bloom year after year, in the spring that flows ceaselessly, in the seasons that come and go, in the ebb and flow of life.  Though she did not quite make it to 100, I feel her with me always, in the core values of faith and family that we hold dear, in the stories we pass down, just like this one. Her life began in a modest farmhouse with wood smoke curling from the chimney—and from that place, she brought forth warmth, faith, laughter, and a legacy of love that still unfolds with each passing day. I thank the Lord for that day. For her. For all the days that followed.

“Her children arise up, and call her blessed…”
—Proverbs 31:28