I remember my uncle as a always genuine man and always with a ready smile and firm handshake and although I did not get to spend as much time with him and my grandfather as I would have liked they are both entertwined in my memories having much the same way about them although I don’t remember grandpa smilin to often!! anyhow even though I may not share the same religious convictions that most of my family does I do believe when you have lived a full and fruitful life such as my uncle did there are many rewards that although are not readily apparent still leave lastin memories and far reaching influences on a great many folks some whom he may never met in person or possibly just in passing and lastly we men and women that are left in our families can only hope that we can leave a vigorous portion of the life that made the memories we all share in many different ways such as my uncle, grandparents and my mother left us with when we pass on .

I will always remember Uncle Cliff as a sincere Christian. A man who worked hard to support his family and the church he loved so much. Uncle Cliff as an industrious man with an inner drive to be productive. I can’t ever recall him being idle. But Uncle Cliff wasn’t all business, he took real delight in a gentle tease and was always ready to enjoy a good laugh. He was naturally curious and practical. He always seemed to be happiest discovering new information and then using what he had learned to create practical things. As a child I was so impressed, he seemed to know everything. Especially keen about nature, mechanical stuff and the Bible Uncle Cliff was a natural teacher who was patient and kind with youngsters.

It’s hard to think of Uncle Cliff without thinking about his hands. They were so big and rough, calloused and scared by years of hard work. But, those big hands could be so gentle. They could pound and bend metal, crank down on a nut or bolt, hold a chain saw or tiller with ease and then just as easily stop to cradle a baby bird or wipe away a crying child’s tears. Those hands remind me of our Saviors hands, scared for our sake but ready to reach out in love and take us in.

His passing will leave a hole in each of our hearts that will only be filled when we see him again at our Saviors side. I take great comfort in knowing that he rests now, awaiting the call of his Lord. Rest in peace Uncle Cliff, we’ll see you soon in Heaven.

George Carpenter

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When I first became old enough to start working in the garden that Dad Matterand planted by the highway below our home, my brother John Clifford Matterand was about was seventeen years old. He was eldest of our family of six and was teamed with me to teach me how to harvest the beans and cucumbers and other vegetables gown in our market garden. We became fast friends as we worked side by side. Dad planted that garden so we kids could earn money for college and for our personal expenses. Cliff taught me his work ethic. We tried hard not to miss cucumbers hiding under their layers of green spiney leaves, so they wouldn’t become slicing grade by the next picking. He defended me from my teasing brother, Don, and carried any bucket of cucumbers that seemed too heavy for me. If I lagged behind he worked back down my row to catch me up with brother, Don and sister, Helen.

When ( John) Clifford was eighteen or so he found work at some distance from home. We waited for his letters and gathered around as Mother read them aloud. When Christmas came he sent presents to each of us. I remember a beautiful little mother of pearl fountain pen he sent me the Christmas I was thirteen. I carried it everywhere with me because it was a gift from my brother, Cliff! Unfortunately, I took it with me one day when my family went for a walk together in the woods. It must have fallen from my pocket as I crawled over a log or climbed under a fence. I didn’t miss it until we returned home. I was heart broken.

I never went to the woods alone. I was deathly afraid of getting lost in the acres of woodland that was a part of my father’s home. I loved that pen so there was nothing to do but re-trace my steps and look for it.

Mom suggested that I take Pete, our Springer Spaniel, with me, to keep me company. I’d read that faithful farm animal sometimes even took their little masters safely home if they were lost. I started out confidently up through the pear orchard Dad had planted in a pasture boardering our woods. Pete stayed close by my heels.

My bravery diminished when I became surrounded by tall trees, looking for the paths we’d taken that earlier that day. When I found the path I started looking on the ground for my pen. I scrutinized both sides of the paths we had traveled. Perhaps because I concentrating on the ground too much so I got hopelessly lost. Pete, our “trusty dog,” wasn’t in the mood to come when I called. He was excitedly chasing first one squirrel then another. He wasn’t lost and he wasn’t ready to go home either. He ignored my calls and ran this way and that chasing first one squirrel and then another. I panicked. Standing still among the the unfamiliar trees and with no path in sight I had no idea which way to turn to find familiar territory. My last hope that Pete might lead me home faded as he chased after yet another squirrel!

Wiping away tears with the back of my hand I shot a quick prayer to heaven asking for help. As quick as a flash a thought came, “Walk down hill.”

To walk down hill made sense. Having strayed from the path on which we’d walked earlier as a family, I knew I must abandon my search for the lost pen and find home. It was somewhere down hill from the woods. I hoped I would come across a clearing and get my bearings again.

I tramped through thickets and clambered around huge hummocks of blackberry vines on my way down hill. I was in completely new territory, but I knew if I “walked down hill” I’d soon find a house or come to Highway 9 that went by our place.. The trees gradually thinned out as I threaded my way down hill. Pete’s excited barking gradually faded as I scrambled around ferns and cow pies. I was alone but I was no longer afraid. The direction to “go down hill” was definitely the right thing to do. I knew my prayer had been answered.

Alas I never saw my dear little pen again but the memory of it is as clear seventy-five years later as it was on the day I received it from my brother, Cliff.

Ann Matterand Gimbel