Mr. James V. Crandall, age 79 of Florence, passed away on March 18, 2024. Elkins Funeral Home is assisting the family.

Mr. Crandall was a man of many talents and interests. He enjoyed the art of bonsai and cross stitch. His family describes him as a man before his time and an outdoorsman that didn't like the outdoors.

Mr. Crandall is survived by his loving wife, Carolyn "Cookie" Crandall; children, Michelle Wisdom (David) and Jason Crandall (Michelle); grandchildren, Christopher Browder (Hannah), Victoria Browder (Britani), Mason Crandall, Hunter Crandall (Cassie), and Rachel Crandall; and brother, Hal Crandall (Debbie). He is preceded in death by his parents, James Victor Crandall, Sr. and Muriel Smith.

"I'm different, hard - working,

and idle too;

I have a goal and yet I'm aimless!

I don't all of me, fit in; I'm awkward,

shy and rude,

nasty and good - natured.

I love it when sharp edge blur.

Many opposites meet in me:

from West to East,

from envy to delight.

I know you insist on the "compact monolith."

But it is the opposites that have vast value!

You need me. I'm heaped as high

as a truck of fresh - mown hay.

I fly through voices, light, and warbling,

with butterflies in my eyes and hay sticking out of cracks.

I greet all that moves! Ardent desire,

and eagerness, triumphant eagerness!

Frontiers are in my way. I am embarrassed

not to know Buenos Aires and New York;

Id like to walk at will through London streets

and talk with everyone I want, even in broken English.

Id like to ride through Paris in the morning

hanging on the back of a bus like a boy.

I want art to be as diverse as myself;

and even if art brings trouble,

and harass me on every side,

I am besieged - beseiged by art.

I've seen myself in every sort of thing:

I feel close to Yesenin and Walt Whitman,

Moussorgsky with the whole stage in his embrace,

and Gauguin tracing his virgin line.

I like to skate in winter,

write poems through sleepless nights;

I like to mock an enemy to his face,

and carry a woman across a stream.

I bite into books, and carry firewood;

I can feel depressed, and know vaguely what I seek.

In hottest August I love to crunch

an ice - cool slice of watermelon.

With no thought of death I sing and drink,

fall on the grass with arms outspread,

and if I should die in this wide world,

then I'll die most happy to have lived. "