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| Birth: | 4 Apr 1890 in Clio, Plumas, California |
| Death: | 7 May 1965 in Reno, Washoe, Nevada |
| Sex: | M |
| Father: | Andrew Jackson b. Feb 1834 in Sidney, Shelby, Ohio |
| Mother: | Esther Ann Geer b. 25 Dec 1847 in Sidney, Shelby, Ohio |
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| Burial: Reno, Washoe, Nevada |
| Changed: 28 Jan 2005 05:50:05 |
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| Sylvia Elvira Finley (Wife) b. 13 Feb 1893 in Lemore, Kings, California
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| Marriage: | 28 Feb 1911 in Alturas, Modoc, California |
| Children: | |
 Andrew F. Jackson b. 18 Sep 1911 in Cedarville, Modoc, California
- Orville Cheatham Jackson b. 22 Jan 1913 in Cedarville, Modoc, California
 Virgil C. Jackson b. 25 May 1915 in Cedarville, Modoc, California
- Eldred May Jackson
- Marjorie Leah Jackson
- Barbara June Jackson b. 14 Jun 1934 in Alturas, Modoc, California
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| Notes | | |
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Individual:
This poem was written by Grover and given to his sister Alice. Her grandson Ken Server forwar
ded it to us.
Snowbound On Our Plumas County Brown Bear Mine
With snow banked deep before our door,
The low hung clouds that promised more,
Were hanging in the murky sky
And helped the too short day to die.
A roaring on the mountain peak
Warned all wildlife to shelter seek,
And burrow deep in snow cloaked cave
While whirling blizzards 'round them rave.
Our house, an humble log affair,
Was short on looks and long on air,
But built to stand that mighty strain
Of piled on snow when soaked with rain.
Within the house, a stove kept red
By dry pine knots all winter fed,
Cast warmth and comfort all about
And kept the chill of winter out.
My sisters stacked their dishes high,
One would wash them, one would dry;
Their snatch of song and laughter gay
Brought gladness to that blacked out day.
The men folks gathered 'round the room
And stories told of mining booms,
When miners came from far and near
To seek the gold to them so dear.
Our Mother plied her needle fast,
Upon herself she took the task
To darn the socks for many feet
And keep our household clean and neat.
A neighbor girl had come one day,
And snowbound, with us forced to stay,
Took her guitar out of its case
While rapture shone on every face.
No Artist learned at Music's skill,
An Audience held at greater thrill;
Her sweet young voice and music clear
Was perfect to our untrained ear.
I was a child that winter night;
Time since has changed my hair to white,
But every face, each voice, each note,
Still in my Memory seems to float.
No more we'll gather at that fold,
And hear the tales those Miners told,
Nor will the songs we loved to hear
There fall upon our hungry ear.
No more from out that kitchen door
Will Girlhood's happy laughter pour;
Our Mother's kind and loving face
No more those humbled rooms shall grace.
But when this snowbound life is o'er,
Life's snowbanks melted from our door,
We'll meet where spring is in the air
Beyond that winding golden stair.
The songs that Trixie sang so well
Again shall cast their magic spell.
We'll hear the tales those Miners told
Of hunting for their yellow gold.
The snatch of song and laughter gay
Will gladder make our gladdest day;
We'll see out Mother sitting there,
Just resting in her easy chair.
The smile that lights her dear sweet face,
There'll be no parting to erase;
We'll meet again, we can, we must;
We'll meet somewhere, for God is just.
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