Lillian ‘Lynn’ Wilson

Lillian ‘Lynn’ Wilson

Lillian ‘Lynn’ Wilson

GUILDERLAND — Lynn Wilson was a constant source of love, support, and guidance for her family, recalled her granddaughter Shelby Moore. And, with that guidance, she always offered an Irish proverb or thoughtful story to put life into perspective, Mrs. Moore added.

Mrs. Wilson, formerly of McKownville, “passed away peacefully” on Tuesday, Jan. 2, 2018, according to her family. She was 92.

Born and raised in Watervliet, Mrs. Wilson was the second-oldest of five children of the late Frank and Elizabeth V. O’Brien. After the family moved to Albany, she graduated from Albany High School.

In 1946, she married James T. Wilson Jr., a union that would last for 67 years and become an inspiration for her children and grandchildren and a model of what a healthy marriage should be, said Mrs. Moore.

Her grandmother met her future husband on the tennis courts in Albany’s Washington Park, when she was 15, Mrs. Moore said. One of their first dates was going to the Strand movie theater; he came over to pick her up on his bicycle and rode her on the handlebars.

The couple built their house on Mercer Street in 1946, settling in McKownville along with many other World War II veterans and their families.

After raising four children, Mrs. Wilson began her career with the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, retiring from that agency after 25 years, as supervisor of the title department.

Mrs. Wilson was “one of the strongest people I know, not just the strongest woman,” said Mrs. Moore. The fact that Mrs. Wilson went to work for the first time after raising a family was, Mrs. Moore said, “a testament to the strong woman she was, always striving to do more, be more, reach her greatest potential, not just as a mom, but as a person.”

She was “a devoted wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and friend to many,” her family wrote in a tribute.

Mrs. Wilson most cherished the time spent with family and enjoyed traveling with her husband throughout Europe and the Caribbean and wintering in Pompano Beach, Florida. She and Mr. Wilson started an annual tradition of traveling with their family to Ogunquit, Maine after, one summer, they simply got in the car and began driving up the coast; they came upon that seaside town and loved it, said Mrs. Moore.

Mrs. Wilson “will be remembered as a strong, kind-hearted person of unwavering faith,” her family wrote.

She had a firm sense of right and wrong, her granddaughter said, noting that Mrs. Wilson always chose to do the right thing, “even in difficult situations.”

Made wise by her life experiences, all of which she handled with grace and strength, Mrs. Wilson was very loyal and “always there to support her family and friends,” Mrs. Moore said.

Mrs. Wilson was proud of her Irish heritage and happy to be able to go to Ireland several times, including a visit to the O’Brien family castle.

“She will be greatly missed by all those who had the privilege to know and love her,” her family wrote.


Lillian “Lynn” Wilson is survived by her children, Dr. Susan Wilson O’Brien; Brian Wilson and his wife, Julie; Barbara Wilson Keller and her husband, Robert; and James T. Wilson III, M.D. and his wife, Meg.

Also surviving are grandchildren Shelby Moore and her husband, Ryan; Molly Wilson; Jessica Wilson; Ben Wilson; Lindsey Miller; and Owen Miller, and great-grandchildren Lyla Ann MacDonald and Savannah Lynn Moore, as well as two of Mrs. Wilson’s siblings, Dr. James O’Brien and his wife, Stella and Patricia Barnes and her husband, Wayne.

Her husband of 67 years, James Wilson, died before her, as did two of her sisters, Virginia Engel and Catherine Spataro.  

A private graveside service was held on May 12, 2018 at St. Agnes Cemetery, where Mrs. Wilson was laid to rest alongside her beloved husband, her family wrote.

Joined: 04/02/2018 - 09:28
A Private Word of My Own

If I May..


The Blueberries from Above.

The Blueberries..

The Blueberries not meant for Love.

The Blueberries..

could not help thinking the same. could I?
-- no sole-

"Good Idea. I'll think it Over"

"ya it most mead like sand somehow. not an english Lute. that would be like an oh ! oh no! no. no. red red no no. red red. no. oh. no. wasn't even a second what an exaggerating piece of machinery- I don't think they actually create or make those too either as thought. I'm ean in the why..

Ha maybe she can get my silver back lol! haha

so she can g'ave another face lol

lol and not a farce lol

or a glass (ice) lol or palace or place (plast- ic) lol

it would be a head ha! an Anne without a dictionary to read and come up with listen:

Have you heard- Ipswich Humanity within when we lose, our stay has ended- it is yours - the Romans and Romanovs - your stupid time piece cemetary you wanted over my stupid ended beach/beachs I wanted.. you better not lock ness. that would be touching my battleship and my nature-

nobody's on the eye I'm a retard nobody like's my shit lol:

Deed's Denied-

The Public Ipswich YMCA Grammar School.

It should be Pre- to school he say. Mei say it should proulude own school.

cone says it should prior to juvinial the sequal- to the techno minimal cocaine set again. I think i'm still black oone- looking to be perfect too without needing the mickey mouse one on top of it too- [priscilla did not say that- she thought i did do coke- that is what she was said- there if it were-

Oh I ordered it so it better work- cause I'm not her

for real- red head-

solely holy leave- hey- ho how- why shall wakexno other freedom veke
Contemplation over thoughts.
… “It’s Smooth dark skin: with care- earth soft white silt.” The Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad….

Autumn- grass green earth dirt
Sun- harvest
Water- latent with care- late light tread thread (tired, teared, tried)
Throne thro^wn
Awisk (awash) wading wa^den
Alone washing

And the contemplation; Thoughts:

A fountain
Strict of light perils of darkness alight (like) (flight) take one, take ten, will they ever, meat again-
Says so he,
He of ruise-
Never a moment cause abust. Willfully, willingly
Set out
None spree, flew the cuckoo, asset, apart and a drown.
A drone posture of pedic- never a storm Thin her eyes there. Was amusk Shone Right Through though nothing plus. A pantry shown. When will this ever come home. No one knew, adrift as he. In his foun-ain, (air) full to glee- to gloat to gloom what was never known. Adrift is he arduent his taken, he must be of three

Never a known of any whom not (none) Worth (en) braken.
‘Tis plume, into fantasy, his flight but known, Unto us, we’ve never known. It smile here, a slither there As if Fall itself should shatter there. Underneath.
The buried. The burrow.
Something’s tactic, something’s overgrun’
Under there bequeath as I ‘neath-
The vluming waft of spring undone as shown,
“all can be as one”
Under this grass, under this grave,
Save no markings upon which decay .
Some tooth Some bunny, sitting inside all alone with their crocodile mothers still yet to be ungrown. In a forest of Eden, t’est a fortune to be told. Don’t be so bold,
Don’t be so bold.
Shy the way, could be
Undone and untold. Some masterful piece of art as thee, to plummet the ground, fallen to its own extacy. Where are we my friend,
We have already shown, now he must own, worthy of his prey, upon his victims of the deceitful- none of dismay, Non Shall you hearing this ‘n’or not, thy throat not hurting dry- its rasping gates stand still still ‘nat the iron
-Or is he just pretending be to pre-
Sanct [Synct] of a moral justice as we ‘tallif(t)
-these underlying layered
Leavening of the layers of such springtime, such birth
‘tis thee,
So as no hark can sing. No hark that harken harkening thus
(sun) none. All is quiet, not quaint- none dee(d)m. The rile (ing) Shown Sun, adrift;
This air ^* (heir) of sparkle
Some (sum’ed) only in light its precious eeired kale of notheness. Nothingness to break
Thun nothingness to borrow.
‘neath its foot gate,
Crimsoned toes,
(placit (placid)
Kavorsking as thun throne;
A dazzle in the light; toasting to the light. Adrift from what was saying, another mune of light (life)
Adrift in stone as is; as if it were.
Plumett down the mountainside: to wash up ashore: All in a breath,
This breath of her. A life thereafter, as somewhat (lacksidasingly)(that of)
Of a whore-
Reminiscent- reminding me of the time we used to be.
Until there was just one.
So then none (then) shall ever be sit free. But there will be days, there will be (galore) (more) (no more) (nun more)

Something (nothing)
A [(It? I forget what I wrote)] never-
More than (such) just a kiss, a Rush,
A ‘ Cello
(Halo) ,
‘piss’ - nothing more to dainte
Her to bliss. Thus finally made her happy. As one, a momentary angel to know-
For just that once to plummet the darkness,
The depth all follow, none to word, none to sound. Abate the Sanctuary, she must drown; She has fallen- never will she get up again, nor the strength had ever to remain - the solitary sorrow-
If that of he than just for a moment, may he take it from thee. A Haul over, pass to light, he turned her now to a feather; one who’s flun around the ground as a Stage in night -
Should he ever be alright.
Tis for he none Shown such
Effortless sanctity at the
Staring (stare/store)
Of the known- forgiven
In thought is she
Though he
Hath thr(e)own,
Unto some oblivion –
The heart
The Spoke
Of the inherent…
Heir- the throne-
To which all must seat and to all a good ‘nigh (night
-what a gentleman, What a
Gentleman (tho but) (theirin disquIie)(disquiTe)
In disguise.

A reckon of hoped, discarded(n)
None a blanket of earth ‘nore fire,
A thresh prince of tainted flower blume
In light (white) blackened by the snow ^(t), over
So many years unspoken, unshown. Cast a Shadow
Of guilt
Material so this maternal flame of fire must be undone and therefore unknown. Cast it unto the heathered of gray, salted, tinted, another orchid
Stay, Not until we reach the stack, graven over glossed lightening of the day- Of
The day of the dawn.
What does it matter more or now- Crimsoned eyelids flown ‘neath that center earth.
The balcony of the *silenced *operatic tragedies best known to be the ‘S’ of the ‘tis alwayed unknown. Renowned as though gift to he, In poetic gesture of furberance, something plastic, plastered
Cheap in - congruence. What nature it thee that stand (s) underneath this ‘round (shrowd) of all darkness to eternity, a picture of benevolence, the finer things of nai^ture- nothing natural nothing matured just something there to be obscured
Though why she none know- She’s a dancer always had loved and loved the snow. Ignorant and innocent his princess

Always stares. As if a Star, shown through light like a brilliance- no Shadow no touch of moon. A face. None never with that dark gloom forbode/forbade to everyone hath (have ever)
She had known
Forever like that she’ll never be shown Who She is who she’s read…. [actually I think I wrote Why she is why She’s real] – But to think- that even though- she doesn’t feel. A particular one none the rest. Nothing special about her. Just her eternal ‘rest. Something to be said afterall- never spun or shown. Secretive as she may. His none of home.
|This carpet of grass that lay by my feet
The scent of flowers,
Their ground
So- neet – So fast So clean not to implore – What is this is nothing more.|

And so I've made up my mind I'm gonna be yours this time

love what is yours and learn how to trust


Anne Orea

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