Anne Humble Evans was a passionate lover of Nature her entire life. She liked to tell her family that as a four-year-old, she went outside each morning to curiously watch spiders build their webs, ants go about their daily chores, and snakes shed their skin. She watched in awe as a rattlesnake gave live birth to its young. She learned to imitate all the bird calls she heard, and could still whistle in response as recently as 6 months ago.
Anne loved all animals, was a committed vegetarian, and her childhood best friend was “little brother” Tim, her beloved rat terrier and fellow explorer. In the last year of her life she really didn’t mind sharing her La-Z-Boy chair occasionally with a one-eyed, 19-pound cat.
She died at age 91 on the very last day of 2020, putting for her family a final punctuation mark on that year that never seemed to end. We miss her very much. However, even her death had a silver lining because, for her, it was the most special day of the year.
New Year’s Eve 1945 was the snowy night she first met the love of her life, my father – Jack (Arthur) Evans. Anne and Jack were separately attending a movie at the theatre in Danville, Kentucky. Afterward, in the lobby, they were introduced, and it was pretty much love at first sight.
Anne’s older sister Laura Jean told how, during their courtship, the two of them were frequently on the phone for hours, reading aloud English Romantic poetry. Until Jack died in November 2011, the couple always celebrated New Year’s Eve as their “real” anniversary, which was even more memorable than their wedding day.
They raised 5 children in the beautiful hilly countryside of southern Indiana. The old farmhouse had a big fruit orchard, a large organic garden, and 10 ½ acres for their kids to play. With her pioneer spirit, Anne canned and froze all the fruits and vegetables they raised, cooked up a storm, made the girls’ clothes, and kept very busy while Jack supported the family and turned their acreage into a gorgeous landscape of fields and woods, orchard and pond.
After the grandchildren came, they were thereafter known as Mama Anne and Papa Jack. They changed their lifestyle by moving to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, buying the Timberline Motel, and running their mom-and-pop business together for 25 years.
This little Ozark mountain town was a beloved place for them and their growing extended family. Every summer, they generously invited all of us to come and stay a week or so for a reunion, each with our own rooms or suite, complete with lots of home-cooked feasts and family outings. It was such a delightful (and now, nostalgic) time for all of us, and it created unforgettable, positive memories for their grandchildren.
In 2006, Mama Anne and Papa Jack retired for good, moving to Eugene, Oregon, to be closer to some of their children and grandchildren. They took daily walks along Amazon Creek trail near their home, played nightly Bingo with their friends at the Arc Bingo Hall, and enjoyed periodic overnight trips to coastal casinos. They were fiercely competitive Scrabble players.
After Papa Jack passed away, Mama Anne was left to carry on without him for many lonely years. She still took daily walks – more slowly, using walking sticks her son Joe fashioned from ski poles. Her daughter Alice played cards with her several evenings a week after work and brought her groceries.
Though she struggled with glaucoma, she still read voraciously, watched nature and adventure shows on television, and continued to join friends at Bingo until the Arc finally closed. Despite visits from her local children and an abundance of fresh garden vegetables provided by their spouses, it became increasingly difficult to live alone.
At last she came to live with her daughter Cathy and husband Lee in that most mythical of all places in her childhood heart, Berea, Kentucky. It was the town of her grandparents, “Daddy Bob” and “Mama Bob” Bottom, and her place of great sanctuary.
This was a big move for a 90-year-old to make all the way across the country; granddaughter Rebecca and husband Matt accompanied her, and Mama Anne had an exciting time watching the changing scenery from the sky before finally landing near the place she considered to be her paradise. She arrived at our home in Berea that night surprisingly refreshed and animated.
For another whole year she lived in health and happiness, even during a pandemic – going for rides in the country to visit her favorite old barns, watching the birds and the neighbors and their dogs from our front porch for hours at a time, eating Lee’s delicious and healthy organic meals, and sleeping as much as she needed to sleep.
Then on that most special of all days – early evening, New Year’s Eve, 2020, Mama Anne left behind her very large family so that she could rejoin Papa Jack on the anniversary of their first significant meeting. Many a time she had prayed for him to come and take her away.
A few days after her death, I learned by chance that Mom’s former neighbor in Oregon had experienced a precognitive dream. In the dream, the morning was bright and sunny. Anne greeted her neighbors as they stepped outside their front door. Then while they were casually chatting, Jack approached them from the parking lot. Playfully, Anne asked, “Where on earth did you come from?” and Jack replied, “I was just coming by to pick you up, when you’re ready.” Anne’s response was, “Well of course I’m ready. I’ve been standing right here the whole time waiting for you!”
“Now that we have that all straightened out,” he said, “we better get going.” They were both laughing as they walked away. Just as the dreamer started to realize that Jack had died years before, both of my parents simply dissolved into thin air.
We are her 5 children (Cathy, Joe, Alice, John, and Dan Evans) and spouses, her 9 grandchildren and spouses, and her 10 great-grandchildren.
Anne Humble Evans was the very last of her generation in our direct family line and now she takes her place with dignity among our Kentucky ancestors. In parting, she gets the last word:
“Once again I feel the humming.
Yes, oh yes, I know the sound.
From dark sleep my soul is waking;
A soul that’s lain too long aground.
Up, then up, my soul is lifted,
Rising far above the earth.
This withered husk’s no longer needed;
A stronger spirit’s given birth.”
– by Anne Humble Evans