Lots of folks are named in memory of others. My own first name is in honor of a fine, Christian wife and mother, Mary Osborn Johnson. She was my grandmother.

She, my own mother and myself were born in the same house in Buckingham Holler, Kentucky. The old house is gone now, along with preceding generations of women. Now the family matriarch, oftentimes are spent reminiscing.

There are no direct memories of Grandmother Mary. She died suddenly following the birth of her seventh child over three years before my birth. For that very reason, stories and memories of others about her are deeply cherished and ingrained in my very being.

Only kind words have been spoken of her. Her life, as the eleventh child of thirteen, was hardscrabble at best. It was challenging to raise a family in the holler and during the depression and WWII when she drew her last breath.

About thirty years ago, we took my mother for her last trip ‘home’ and while there made a wonderful discovery. The old trunk of Mary’s was there. Despite damage to the contents from mice gaining entry because someone carelessly left the lid open, the remains were a genuine treasure trove for me.

There was an abundance of letters she and my grandfather had exchanged during their courtship and many more during WWII when he took a job for the Navy at Newport News, Virginia to work as a carpenter in the shipyard. The trunk contained other memorabilia, too.

She wrote of the struggle to raise her ever growing family and the hard labor they engaged in as soon as they were big enough to help on the place. Her parents lived next door and farmed the hillsides. There was more information regarding them, her aunts, uncles and siblings than could have been gleaned by word of mouth alone.

Always fascinated and held spellbound by listening to elderly family tales, I hungrily devoured every word.

When finished I arranged them in chronological order and then felt morose. What could be done with them? One man’s trash is indeed another man’s treasure, but as I scoured our family tree, it was evident there was no one who would want them or cherish them like I did. My own mother was disinterested.

What to do? That question haunted me for days before inspiration struck.

I compiled them into a book including family group and pedigree charts along with as many old photos I could scrounge and gather.

The cover was a full-sized photo of my grandparents on their wedding day and the title was Voices from the Dust.

Responses from aunts, uncles and others who began receiving them via the mail were varied. One uncle, only five when his mother died, was thrilled and treasured every word, caressed every photo as he tried to recall as much as possible from that period of his life.

Others were pleasantly surprised and said so. My own mother refused to read it or look within the covers. Puzzled, when I asked why, she wrinkled up her face and said, “Just leave all that in the past.”

To this day her response bewilders me.

But back to Mary. She had a wonderful reputation as a beloved and endearing person. Multi-talented she made all her children’s clothes, except the overalls, with nary a formal pattern. In pictures from their youth, they were impeccably dressed as if store bought.

Mary was apparently a fabulous cook despite the limited items available on their small farm. She was famous for her chocolate pudding, which is likened to southern chocolate gravy. Everyone in the holler begged her to make them some.

She was a hard-working woman, slim and tall with brunette hair that naturally curled. Despite the few sluggards, everyone worked hard simply to survive.

She dropped everything in a heartbeat when someone was in need and was generous with the simple meals she prepared, often sending my mother over the hillside to deliver meals to a large but destitute family.

From those letters, I gained a deeper understanding of her character. Throughout my lifetime, it was markedly flattering when others spoke of how much I reminded them of Mary. Our appearances were much different but our talents and characters share a deep commonality.

Though not everyone who bears the name of another embraces it, I always have. I’ve striven to bring only honor to their name by my actions, words and demeanor. Are you are named after someone who was respected and revered? Do you consider the impact on their good name in your behavior?

My belief is that my grandmother, Mary, will greet me one sweet day on the other side of mortality. What a glorious day that will be!