We have discovered that The Class of 1960 has still another author .... Janis .... A review of the book is included below ...
You can purchase the book on Amazon.com by either clicking on the book or
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On September 10, 2021, Janis received the "Order of Vandalia" from the University of West Virginia for meritorious service .
For brief history of this award,
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1960 at Links' Debutante Ball
1969 New York Shriners Queen
1977 at Carnegie Hall with Mother, Aunt Thelma,
cousin Tonette, family friend and Janis.
The gorgeous guy in the back was Janis' husband.
1981 At Carnegie Hall with her mother.
A 2004 Publicity Photo.
Bench outside the Xenia Senior Citizens Center.
Saying Goodbye to Zenobia
by Janis-Rozena Peri
Zenobia
In an interview once, Mother was asked about her philosophy of parenting. Her response? “Being a parent is a privilege, an honor, and a responsibility. All children belong to God. As parents, we are God’s appointees: we are the guardians of His children.”
World War II did lots of damage. Lives, buildings, trust, health, sanity - all were lost or damaged. Among the ruins: my parents’ marriage. As I grew up, contact with my father was minimal: I saw him on exactly seven occasions. The glorious constant in my life was Mother, Zenobia Powell Perry. A composer and university professor, she was also a peaceful and courageous warrior; a loyal and loving daughter; an influential and caring teacher; and a wonderful and wondrous mother.
No one can figure out how, in a family of people who are so, to put in kindly, substantial, she managed to be so tiny. On a good day, wearing a suit, a heavy woolen coat, and pair of snow boots, Zenobia might weigh one hundred pounds. She had to be reminded to eat: food was way down on her list of priorities. As she got older, it got harder to get her attention away from composing and hundreds of other activities to get her to the table. The Wilberforce-Xenia community seemed to make it their business to see that Zenobia was eating regularly. There was always a steady stream of neighbors showing up at her door with some dish that she just had to try.
Zenobia died at the age of ninety-five. My last days with her were agonizing and painful. She was diagnosed on January 7, 2004 with a lethal cancer and died ten days later. But her sense of humor held up until the end. Shortly before she went into a final coma, she assured me: “The first eighty years are the hardest.” The hospice nurse, in her compassion, understood. “Your mother needs her peace,” she said, “but she can’t die until you leave the room. She doesn’t want to die in front of you.” So, I left the room. She died ten minutes later.
“Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.”