Mary Ann (Beedle) Cole (1843-1919)

BEEDLE, COLE, SMILEY, FURMAN, BALDUS, SWITZER

Posted By: Dorian Myhre (email)
Date: 6/11/2024 at 16:31:30

From Story City Herald December 25, 1919 (page 1)

OBITUARY

Mary A. Cole

Mary A. Cole, wife of O. A. Cole (deceased) passed away in Omaha, Neb., Dec 9, 1919, where she lived with her daughter Alta, who is a teacher in the public schools of that place.

She had been in poor health the past 3 months, bein confined to her bed the last two weeks. All that medical science and loving hands could do was done to relieve her of her intense suffering, but death was the only relief. Her sickness and death was caused from liver trouble principally.

She was a patient sufferer, and made no complaints and was perfectly reconciled and willing to give up the struggle and go to rest.

Mrs. Cole was born in Indiana, March 13, 1943, being nearly 77 years of age at death. At the age of 12 years her people moved to Central Iowa, where she lived and united with the Christian church, remaining a faithful member until her death. She was united in marriage to Geo. W. Smiley March 29, 1860, she lost his life in the civil war. Two daughters were born to this union, Ida, deceased, and Mrs. A. A. Furman.

In February, 1867, she was united in marriage to O. A. Cole of Meadville, Penn. 7 children were born to this union, namely, Mrs. L. C. Baldus, Mrs. Carl Switzer, A. B. Cole, C. G. Cole, J. F. Cole, Miss Alta and Lennie (deceased). She also leaves two stepsons, W. S. and E. E. Cole.

She was a kind and loving wife and mother and leaves many relatives and dear friends to mourn her loss. She was brought to Webster City for burial by the side of her husband, who passed away eight years ago. The floral offerings were many and most beautiful. All of her children were with her during her last days, and all at the funeral except one stepson E. E. Cole, it being impossible for him to come.

'Tis a long, 'tis the last,
'Tis a beautiful rest;
When all sorrow is gone
From the brow and the breast.
'Tis that rest we may long for,
That rest we may crave,
'Tis the beautiful sleep--
The sleep of the grave.