

-NIEA Finalist and BRAG Medallion Author-
H.M. JONES

In Memory of Mom
Elizabeth Annette (Bohnett) Springer known to most as Beth, left this world on May 30th, 2025, surrounded in love. She would not want you to name your unborn children Annette after her. She wasn’t fond of her name and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.
She passed in the comfort of her home in Kirksville, MO, on her nephew Zach’s peaceful property, where she’d spent her final days laughing, loving, chuckling at her birds, and yes, still cracking jokes.
She also requested, in her final weeks, that her daughter Hannah (H.M. Jones) read aloud her latest book, Pickering Place. She laughed at all the right moments and thought Xaiden was the absolute worst. She’d want the world to read all of her daughter’s books and give them five-star reviews. She’d absolutely love it that her tragic death could be used for her daughter’s fame and financial gain. This is an unpaid advertisement, and H.M won’t be paying the estate.
Beth lived life with a fierce and hilarious sense of wonder. She was a free-spirited adventurer, a maker of things both beautiful and strange, and a woman with a wicked sense of humor—equal parts morbid and inappropriate. The more awkward she could make a room feel, the more joy it brought her. In this spirit, she lives on in her dark-humored children, but not in a haunting sort of way. She was sick of this place and didn’t care to stick around. She would’ve loved that one of her final moments involved her daughter Maggie quoting Monty Python’s “Bring out your dead” while everyone in the room tried to pretend it wasn’t wildly inappropriate, or feigned temporary deafness. She would’ve found it absolutely hilarious. We hope you heard that last joke, mom.
Beth found joy in the weird and wonderful (which is why she married Randy), especially roadside attractions. Her husband fondly remembers the unadulterated joy in her eyes when they stopped in what he regarded as one of the most unremarkable towns in the US to see the World’s Largest Chili Pepper. He described the exhilarated gleam in her eye perfectly, and marveled at what a beautiful and brilliant soul she was to find such rapture in painted fiberglass.
She found similar amusement in the redwoods, hippy Bigfoot, Flintstone National Park, the Sinclair dinosaur, and a giant toilet-shaped restroom in Kansas. She thought Area 51 should have been way more over-the-top, and one of her dying wishes was that someone take it upon themselves to make it absolutely ridiculous to visit. No pressure. Just a dying wish of the world’s most beautiful soul.
One of her final adventures was a trip to Ohio with her granddaughter Emma to visit the World’s Largest Basket. It was also the last patch she lovingly hand-stitched into her husband’s travel blanket.
She had a dream to see all 50 states and almost did it, often traveling in her tiny home on wheels built by her beloved husband of 35 years, Randy Springer. Together, they chased sunsets, grandkids, and every oddity America could offer. Being odd together gave them their happiest memories. Her daughter Margaret promised her they she’d find the most respectful puddles in the remaining six states Beth had left to visit, and with great solemnity (and some smirking) sprinkle her ashes into them.
Her son, Sam, hopes that should anyone find Bigfoot (he highly doubts this, much to his mom’s disappointment), that you take a not-blurry picture of him and let him know mom was his biggest (despite her diminutive stature) fan.
Beth was a creative whirlwind—an artist, quilter, seamstress, cake decorator, bartender, landscaper, waitress, vet assistant, small business owner, daycare operator, homeschool teacher, and the heartbeat of her family. Her Etsy shop, BS Originals (yes, those initials were intentional), reached across the globe and even landed her in an Australian store, a country living magazine and a glamping book. Her busy energy early in life might have exhausted lesser people but her kids remember it fondly. Some of them even inherited it.
More than anything, Beth loved her people. Her husband was the love of her life, her four kids were her pride, and her grandkids were her everything. On the day she passed, two of her grandbabies gave her hugs that brought the last smile to her face. Her love stretched far beyond blood—she welcomed every bonus family member as her own and carried a heart of gold that beat for everyone she met.
Her peaceful, abundantly loving heart could not be thwarted by any act of unkindness. When someone threw shade around her, she was the sun.
It should be noted, here, that her oldest and first child, the Sarah Dunn, wished to have it immortalized in writing that, while her mother truly loved all her children, she was the favorite by far. Unfortunately, we forgot to poll her before she left, so we can neither confirm nor deny it.
Beth is survived by some somewhat bitter people that think it’s lame that she rushed through their lives like a tiny tornado, and gave the world only over six decades of her perfection. They are a little mad at her about it, honestly. These loving but angry people are her husband Randy; her children Sarah (Kevin) Dunn, Samuel (Jessica) Root, Hannah (Anthony) Jones, and Margaret (Jay) DeGunia; her grandchildren Emma, Trenton, David, Lexi, Clara, Anthony Jr., Ellie, Layla, David, Charlotte, Jackson, Zoey, Austin and Azalea; her siblings Mark (Carol) Bohnett, Richie (Lori) Springer, Robbie (Flora) Springer, Lisa Springer, Laura (Andy) Jones, and Gary Hipkins; and countless nieces, nephews, cousins, friends, and people who were lucky enough to know her.
She was greeted at Heaven’s gates by her parents Earl and Wilma Bohnett, in-laws Rich and Leona Springer, her weird sister Becky Hipkins, her grandparents, and her ex-husband and dear friend David Root. Her family thinks it likely that mom and aunt Becky are singing strange camp songs in between praise choruses with the angels.
Beth requested there be no public service. But her family knows that those who loved her want to do something to remember her. So, we request that you find your nearest oddity or roadside attraction and you take a picture next to it and send it to one of her kids. We will photoshop her into it with you and hashtag it #bethgetsaround. We feel this would be a hilarious way to memorialize her.
To know Beth was to know what true love felt like. She will be missed beyond all measure.
Remembering in Grief
By H.M. Jones for her mom
I’m trying to think honestly, but, honestly, I can’t see past the grief to what is reality. And it shifts, depending on the viewer. The beholder thinks differently about you, in their mind’s eye or when you stood–solidly in gravity–on the earth that seems so much duller without you. Reality is tricky, anyway. What is this where where we stand, breathe, laugh, have sex, rage, cry and love? Until we don’t. And why is it? Why is this our reality? This loss of what we hold most dear, this slow decay, this anger and fear?
But that’s not how you thought about life. You were the one I called when I felt too nihilistic, when the downs were too down and the empty, hollow yearning for a final sleep got too much. Not because you understood but because you were a lovely, soft, serene light reminding me not of what was ugly, hard and wrong but what was magic embodied in commonplace.
I could hear the serenity in your eyes, picture it as you said the world is not ready for my goodbye. Cycles are normal, you said, but beauty is everywhere I look. I could see you close your eyes–that slight, peaceful smile–and I could picture with you that beauty I was too gone to see. And it always lifted me. My daughter’s wit, talent and humor. My son’s bright smile, kindness and activity. The way the clouds made shapes just to amuse you and me. The busy, beautiful lives of the little things that bark, meow, cheep and tweet. You said, “Look! See them through me…”
It was a practice that never failed to help me see what the darkness blinded me to. I needed you. Did you know that? I think sometimes you thought yourself a burden, past use. I didn’t call as much as others. I didn’t ask you for anything. Did you think that meant I didn’t need you around? Because you’re not here, and I can say with all of me that I needed you just the way you were. I needed your laughter, your inappropriate oversharing, your semi-religious spirituality, even your conspiracies–they distracted me from myself. I needed you for how you managed to see.
You saw magic in such minor things. It was contagious, and life saving to more than me. Dad remembers the gleam in your eyes, the sparkle in your smile when you gazed at a goofy roadside attraction. He saw peeling paint, poor construction, past its prime. He wondered, as all who must have seen your joy did, what you saw that he failed to see in fiberglass and too many coats of paint? You stood as if in the presence of heavenly joy, and you were. You transcended the dingy reality of this world and saw what brought you the most joy to see. We weren’t homeless–we were adventurers, traveling the world, brave and roughing it, singing camp songs over the fire. We were Romany caravaners, building the best sandcastles known to man, standing in the shadows of giants, awe-struck by geysers, stone towers and the resiliency of a woman men and life tried to abuse.
You laughed in the face of abuse, neglect and chaos and made life what you thought it was, what it should be, for you kids, who you refused to forget, refused to not prioritize, poured your everything into. And it shows. We do not know the life you knew. What we had was chaotic, strange, sometimes traumatic and often imperfect. But what a beautiful gift to transcend as you did, side-step and pour love and vivacity into everything.
How did you not grow jaded when life took from you stability, health, the ability to walk, and, in the end, the ability to speak? How did you sit, dying, with that slight smile on your face? How were you serene, laughing and engaged, as I read you the last book you’ll ever experience? How did you not rage at the unfairness? How did you not scream under the intense pain? How did you worry that you were asking too much from me, with the everything you gave?
I can remember all the good things–the way you smelled slightly of handmade soap, smokey but not like cigarettes, strangely enough. Like a dark cup of coffee, hippy-eque patchouli and deep, downy lavender. I can remember the way you buzzed about life like a bee–dipping your toes into everything, so long as it fit into we, the family. I recall the sound of your singing in harmony with aunt Becky, weaving ridiculous melodies to appease our travel-worn spirits. I can remember the glee in every detail you poured into your dream–your tiny, perfect house–that would take you to almost all of the places you’d wanted to see, which was anywhere your children and grandchildren turned out to be.
I still remember the bad, too, but, like you, don’t often dwell on what can’t break me. Until I can’t forget it anymore. Then, suddenly, I’m so angry. I can see you, till the end, fighting for breath that was leaving you, holding a cigarette in one hand, insisting you were past fixing and you’d cling to whatever joy you had. But that joy took you from us and I can’t help but feel rage at the fact you’d do all you could to be with us, to help us, to care for us, except give up the one thing that was always going to take you from us.
Look, I know all of us have vices that eventually remove us from this world. Our imperfection is our only common bond. Our crutches define us, whether it’s hiking one too many mountains and dying in the cold, a heart giving out under the unnecessary stress we let society bring upon us, drowning in a drug-induced haze, or in the smokey embrace of Marlboros. I understand that, but the anger is still there, sometimes, often. Sneaky, bitter, cold and clouding my grief with blame.
I don’t want my remembering in grief to be all those good things tainted by the few ugly things that seem so much more powerful to my lizard-brain. That fear protects me from making the same mistakes, but it also makes me bitter. It lessens the joy that other thoughts could bring me. I wish that I could call you again, and you’d work your magic trick. You’d remind me of the way the light hits the fog and it looks like hazy, glowing, ethereal perfection. You’d calmly tell me to have more sex, to walk in the trees, to stare at the sparkling water, and, above all, to be always thankful in my prayers. That mantra of thankfulness will save me if I recite it before I sleep. You assured me it would. It has before. Maybe it will again.
So here it goes:
I’m thankful for the way you danced, rhythmically, unlike me.
I’m thankful for your fuzzy, soft head that would be no more tamed than your wild spirit.
I’m thankful for your voice-soft and sweet and clear when it sang; sing-songy even when you weren’t singing.
I’m thankful you never withheld praise or hugs or love.
I’m thankful for the places you took me–the wonders we experienced wherever we were.
I’m thankful for your giving nature, which I inherited.
I’m thankful for your art–your ability to take up anything–sewing, painting, drawing, quilting, creating. You never failed to be amazing at all the things you tried.
I’m thankful for your work-ethic. You gave 100% in every aspect of your life.
I’m thankful for your prayers, for your protective spirit.
I’m thankful Randy meant to date you but grew enchanted by you and fell in love, with you and with us. It was inevitable. He could not fight your pull. Few could.
I’m thankful for your relationship with him, so that I could see that steady, habitual love was a possibility.
I’m thankful for how soft, kind and caring he was with you when you needed him to be. Your love was given fully to him and, when you needed it, was returned tenfold.
I’m thankful for your independent spirit that made you capable of fleeing bad decisions, of removing yourself from bad people and of making better places for us to be safe.
I’m thankful for having been your daughter for 40 years and would have gladly been in your presence for 40 more if you could give it.
I’m thankful for the time I did have you, and will grieve every day I don’t.
I’m thankful that you are not tensed in pain, grimacing and wondering when it will end.
I’m thankful I got to hold your hand, fix your hair, tend to your needs, like you did with me when I was in need.
I’m thankful you saw where you were going, vividly, and smiled in peace when you pictured it.
I’m thankful for you in all ways, even in anger and grief, because all of it means you were treasured, important beyond measure.
I am so thankful for you.
