The water wagon Art Mapes enjoyed watching as a child. From the collection of Michael Mapes

When I think about old Sunnyside
My mem’ries, somehow mix with pride;
And I see the house where I was born
On a street once lined with fields of corn.

I remember our barn with its mow of hay
Where we used to climb, and romp, and play;
And how we did chores by lantern’s light,
And how we played “hide and seek” at night.

It was a humble old part of town
With some of its shacks all tumbled down.
Its streets were like old country roads
With ruts worn deep by wagonloads.

Sometimes these mem’ries make me sad
When I think of my dear Mom and Dad,
And all of the sorrows they tried to hide
When times were hard back in Sunnyside.

Folks shared each others griefs and joys,
And all of the Sunnyside girls and boys
Would laugh, and fight, and sing, and play
In the good old fashioned Hoosier way.

We gathered eggs from chicken coops,
And walked on stilts, and rolled our hoops;
And rolled our marbles to a crack,
And hiked out to the woods and back.

We had trees to climb, and creeks to wade,
Had swimmin’ holes with lots of shade;
Dug worms to fish at Bixler Lake,
Had huts to build, and kites to make.

Sometimes our fun would bring such woes
As sunburned backs, and blistered toes;
But sometimes we had work to do,
And Mom would keep us busy…too.

Like beating rugs, or planting seeds,
Or chopping wood, and pulling weeds;
Or running errands to the store,
And there were, Oh, so many more.

Those were the days when life was sweet,
When folks along that dusty street
Were dear to me in every way,
That’s why I write of them today.

For Sunnyside was no disgrace,
I’ve never found a dearer place,
No greater object of my pride
Than the humble streets…of Sunnyside.

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