Come with Me Come with me
to family farms of yesterday.
We'll walk together where once man toiled,
raised his children, and taught them
the joy of growing things.
Where farms were sparkling castles
and every man was king.
Others will come and possess this ground,
but never again will folks be found
who worked with callused hands
and lived entirely off the land.
The last true farmers have all gone on.
Come with me
to yesterday.
The Place
The place where I was born and raised,
so very long ago,
Was filled with wondrous sights and sounds;
it's there I want to go.
There was a clear and bubbling stream
with cattails 'round about,
And brightly colored butterflies
that flitted in and out.
The sky was so much bluer there,
the grass was greener still.
Tall trees and flowers seemed to smile
and cover every hill.
The nights were filled with nature's songs,
gliding to my ear.
The call of cricket, owl, and quail
was all a man could hear.
Cool breezes blew across my bed,
the stars were big and bright.
The moon was so much closer there,
and bathed my world with light.
Won't someone take me to my home;
it can't be far away.
I'm sure I heard the sounds of it
where little children play.
Yesterday
I am the songs The farmers sang,
I am their prayers at night.
I am the smile in grateful eyes
When crops grew full and ripe.
I am the joy the lassies felt
When fellers came to call.
I am the courage in the hearts
Of sons grown strong and tall.
I am the tears the mothers shed
When little babies cried.
I am the memory of lifelong friends
When they lay down and died.
I am the hope for sun and rain,
Their price in work well done.
I am the calm and quiet of night
When God and man were one.
I am the life of yesterday
That filled the countryside.
Somehow I hope that you may feel
The winds on which I ride.
The Road
I've long since lost the start of it,
this winding road I travel on,
Though in my dreams I still can see
the peaceful lane it started from.
If there were hills along The way,
a fertile valley followed soon.
If narrow bridges blocked the road,
the road grew wider very soon.
So many paths lead from this road,
I could not help but take a few.
I traveled down my share of them,
and stayed a while on one or two.
The road has always called me back,
and I have always heeded it.
But sometimes I have wondered why,
and even balked, I must admit.
I can't yet see the end of it,
this winding road I travel on,
Though in my dreams I faintly see
the peaceful lane it started from.
Farmhouse Winter
With freezing hands and freezing feet,
we'd race into the house.
Up to the fireplace we would go
and start our turning 'round about.
At once we'd get our front sides warm,
then warm our cold behinds.
Then we'd be cold in front again
and turn another time.
We never could get warm throughout;
that just could not be done.
With all the others crowding 'round,
the fight for warmth was never won.
The one fireplace was all we had,
with winter's cold outside.
And not a lot of help it was,
as winter crept inside.
But when the evening chores were done,
we ate our fill of peas and greens.
And all sat back to wait awhile,
before the long night's dreams.
Our Mama warmed some battered bricks
to place beneath the flannel sheet.
They kept the bitter winter's cold
from nipping at our feet.
Then three or four, or more, of us
would climb into the bed.
We'd scoot way down inside
and cover up our heads.
It wasn't long before warm came
beneath the heavy cover.
Nowhere was there warmer warmth
before the night was over.
The Cussing Stump
Three basic needs, food and shelter
and room to reproduce, we learned in school
Were man's essentials for survival;
but they forgot one other rule.
Mankind must have some room to cuss,
a sin for sure in days gone by.
If older folks are less assertive,
most likely this is why.
Dad-gum, doggone, and sometimes darn
were words as bad as we could say.
If cussing words were what we needed,
we'd have to find a secret place.
There was a stump down in the woods
that served our purpose well.
It was a multipurpose stump,
where tears and cuss words fell.
For on that stump we did our praying
for God to save our pers from dying.
On that same stump, I must confess,
was where we practiced lying.
But most of all et served us best
to get away from fussing.
When tempers flared or parents glared,
we'd mount that stump and do some cussing.
Swimming Hole
There was a place we loved to go
that is no more, or so I'm told.
It was a very special place,
the tree lined, muddy swimming hole.
Into the woods and down the hill,
we'd race as fast as we could run.
And all the while the clothes would fly,
as we ran naked in the sun.
The last one there was teased a bit
and called a stinking rotten egg.
But very soon such words were gone;
the hole was filled with arms and legs.
We'd swing from limbs and jump from banks;
we'd scream an yell and dive and hide.
A fallen log was always there
to bob and sink and sit astride.
And just as sure as God made rain,
one rat was always in the pack.
He'd gather all the other's clothes
and fling them in the briar patch.
Somewhere I hope there's still a hole
where naked boys swim and play.
No cares are there and life is fun,
just as it was in our day.
Watermelon Time
Watermelon time was not a certain date
on the calendar you'd watch and wait
for-like Christmas, Easter, or New Year.
We'd know the time was getting near
after all the hoeing and plowing was done
and melons were gleaming in bright summer sun.
Then finally came that special day
when Papa thumped and liked the way
one melon sounded. With special care
he plucked a chosen few to bare
back home to line up in a row
in the shade of the porch, just so.
Watermelons! We all would shout,
running wildly in and out
of the house to get knives and spoons.
With a long knife Papa very soon
had all the melons sliced so neat,
all in a row and ready to eat.
There was just one more certain thing
before we children dared to bring
that juicy treasure to our mouths;
my Papa had his speech about
the goodness of God and steady work,
how melons came from God's good earth.
Then came the time-that special time-
the one first bite down to the rind.
Aaaaaaah, I can taste it even now.
After all these years, somehow,
the sweet memory is still mine
or that special "Watermelon Time."
Sweets
It's not the thing to do today,
to eat so many special sweets.
I know you must have wondered why
it's what we oldsters love to eat.
The reason really is quite clear;
it's simply what we're due.
If you had none when you were young,
you'd be sugar-happy too.
We've had our share of greens and peas,
of bread there was always plenty.
But pies and cakes and candy bars,
there simply were not any.
Of course we knew what sweet foods were;
in our dreams they'd taunt and tease.
We'd get a bite or two at Christmas,
then it was back to greens and peas.
Now you know why old folks like sweet
sweets like pies and cakes and such.
So bring it on, and lots of it,
and if you want, come dine with us.
Country Manna
We really had nothing to dread.
We were always sumptuously fed.
Three meals a day,
Whether clabber or whey,
We'd fill up on milk and cornbread.
* * *
A skinny old boy from the farm,
Was little but long legs and arms.
He went to the city,
They said what a pity,
Less peas and greens would do him no harm.
* * *
A skinny young lass from the South,
Ate nothing but chitlins and souse.
She said with great pride,
Just watch as I slide,
From the back to the front of the house.
* * *
His family was constantly fretted,
Though Willie Earl never regretted,
Watermelons he'd eat,
'Til they came out of his feet,
And every two minutes he wetted.
* * *
Our preacher liked chicken to eat,
For us a most special treat.
He'd fill up his gut,
And leave nothing for us,
But gizzards and livers and feet.
Patches
There were two crops on family farms
Way back when I was young.
You've heard about them, I am sure.
Corn and cotton were their names.
It's these you hear the most about,
But listen to me, please!
While true enough the two were there,
More deadly still were "patches."
Hoeing cotton all day long
Or picking in the fall
Or pulling corn and loading it
Were all backbreaking chores.
But patches, patches stole our souls.
There was no end to those damn things.
From early winter 'til late fall,
They were always waiting there.
First came the Irish potato patch
With a billion bugs to pluck.
Then came the sweet potato patch
With slips to set out in the ground.
There was the watermelon patch,
The pea patch and the peanut patch.
There was the sorghum patch and the turnip patch,
The popcorn patch and the blackberry patch.
Just when we thought we'd get a rest,
There was another patch to tend.
There was an end to corn and cotton,
But patches went on forever.
If you see a man without a soul,
You'll know he labored long in patches.
Mama's Garden
Although it wasn't very large,
no doubt it saved our lives.
The garden was a busy place
for little ones and wives.
The menfolk worked in larger fields,
and older children too,
and thus it was at our house.
My Mama led this little crew.
The garden work was never done.
The grass we cut, the bugs we plucked,
the weeds we pulled and carried out
would fill a pickup truck.
Before the picking could be done
and carried to the yard,
little hands must reach inside
to wash up all the jars.
Then came the endless picking,
crawling slowly down the rows
of butterbeans, string beans, peppers, and such,
and tubs and tubs of tomatoes.
My Mama labored long and hard,
quite often late at night,
to get the many cannings done
just when the crops were ripe.
We stored them in the hillside cellar
and underneath the beds.
Dry peas and butterbeans were picked,
and placed out in the shed.
Peach halves were spread out on the roof
to dry, then put in a sack.
Throughout the long cold winter days,
they made the grandest snack.
I now look back and wonder how
Mama ever got it done.
Somehow there was always food
to feed us all, then some.
How Come?
"How Come?" we'd ask, meaning, "Why?"
"How come rain falls from the sky?"
"How come the sun to set?"
"How come this is dry when it was wet?"
"How come stoves are hot
While trees are not?"
"How come some things are red?"
"How come chickens, not birds, are fed?"
Countless "How come" questions we would ask.
And always Mama took the task
To answer queries the livelong day.
"God only knows." That's what she'd say.
Hog Killing Time
In days long gone I still can remember
that fateful day in late November.
Believe it or not, that Papa of mine
would see that it came at Thanksgiving time.
He'd fattened the hogs in a pen near the shed
where the corn was kept, so they could be fed
all, and more, than they could possibly eat.
They were loaded with fat right down to their feet.
The day began early, long before daylight,
when Papa began fretting to get things right.
All the knives must be sharpened and laid in a row.
Sausage sacks must be made by all who could sew.
A hole for the barrel must be dug in the ground,
and a platform for scraping built strong and sound.
The pot must be filled clear up to the top
with water for boiling that must never stop.
At sunrise the pace would quicken still,
as we all gathered 'round to witness the kill.
One by one the big hogs were shot,
and a sharp pointed knife stabbed the jugular spot.
A skittish old mule was led to the pen;
the dead hogs were dragged to the waiting men.
Into the boiling hot water they flopped,
turned and out on the platform with hardly a stop.
The razor sharp knives scraped off the hair,
as steam from the hogs filled the cold air.
Then up on the scaffold the hogs were all hung,
where the final washings and scrapings were done.
With skill and precision and the sharpest of knives,
Papa gutted the hogs as he'd done all his life.
With a tub underneath, all the entrails were caught;
nothing was wasted, we were all firmly taught.
Mama cleaned the entrails just over the hill
for the making of chitlins, a real fancy meal.
The pigs' feet and kidneys were thrown in a poke,
to be taken at once to surrounding poor folk.
The heads were removed and the brains cut out,
and the leftovers saved for the making of souse.
The tenderloin strips were then pulled down,
and the hogs cut in half, they never touched ground.
The hams and shoulders and middlings were cut,
with the extra fat all laid aside to be put
in the pot for the cooking and making of lard.
Cracklings were sacked and squeezed very hard.
The grinding of sausage was the final chore,
with the adding of sage, red pepper, and more.
Then came the stuffing of sausage so fine,
no biscuit went empty in all winter time.
So what if Thanksgiving was one day late.
It was all very much worth it to wait
just one more day, just one more time,
for the feast Mama made after hog killing time.
New Ground
New ground is a small plot from hell
placed here on earth for just a spell
to break a man's spirit or test his soul
or damn him to hell, whatever the goal.
There's nothing more on God's green earth
that will measure a man and test his worth.
It's lowland that has been let to rest
from the farmer's plow while the best
of his land is tended with care.
It's a wet, dark, mosquito-laden snare
that only a man with half a brain
would venture into and try to tame.
Well, Papa, my Papa, sought out such holes,
and took great delight in testing the souls
of all his children, large and small,
to see who could take the crush of it all.
We'd swear we had much more to do
than he had reason to expect us to.
But off we would go with axes and hoes,
with saws and wedges and heaven only knows
what all else to that hot airless hell.
What happened there is painful to tell.
There must be thousands of limbs on tall oak trees
that have grown in swampland for countless centuries.
Trees don't just grow up, they grow down.
I don't know how far; we never found
the bottoms of those damn things.
They were so gol-darn heavy it brings
tears to my eyes when I think of the pain
we endured, the bruises and muscle strain.
The briars and brush and unseen snag
would reach out and grab as I tried to drag
another limb to the brush pile to burn
on another day when it came my turn
to roast in hell and round up the brush
left over from before that was too hot to touch.
Then came the breaking of that cursed land,
as I rode the disc with my life in my hand,
and the fast turning plow that would suddenly stop
at a root-into the plow I'd go and drop
to my knees in agony and curse the day I was born,
then try again, my soul in hell and my body torn.
Soon came spring and the new ground was readied,
smooth black soil in rows that were bedded
and seeded with bright yellow corn.
Out of this swamp where hell was born
would come a good crop, believe it or not.
But, I'm here to tell you, hell is still hot.
Should any man tell you of the goodness of new ground,
of the grand and wonderful crops to be found
in such places, know without any doubt,
he has no idea what he's talking about.
No place on earth can hell be found
like the hell of a hole we called new ground.
Milking Bessie
Get up, Bessie!
Go on up to the trough
And eat your cottonseed meal and hulls.
Why'd you have to lay down in that----?
You old fool!
Here comes your stupid calf
One tit now-that's all you get.
You know you'll get the scours.
That's enough. Let me get this rope on you.
Come on-don't pull back!
Dad-gummit-get off my foot!
Back your leg, Bessie.
Let me wash your bag off.
You ought'n to've laid down in that----
You old fool!
Be still!
I'll put the kickers on you!
Get your tail outta my face!
Doggone flies.
Gimme that tail. I'll tie it to this post.
Now how do you like----?
Get your dang foot outta that bucket!!
Darn it! Darn it! Darn! Darn it!!!
Old One-Eyed John
This mule was mean without a doubt.
So mean you may have heard about
his ugly face and big black ears,
and one blind eye for all his years.
Old One-Eyed John.
His right eye glared in bright sunlight
and glistened in the darkest night.
He wasn't tall but lean and strong,
and no man dared approach him wrong.
Old One-Eyed John.
Some thought him crazed; I called him mean.
He liked this game, or so it seemed,
to send me flying through the aid
to land upon my derriere.
Old One-Eyed John.
I'd ride him from the field one day,
And on the next I'd get halfway
on when he'd squint that evil eye,
then back his ears and climb the sky.
Old One-Eyed John.
And off I'd go-- no telling where.
That demon then would just stand there.
I swear to you I've seen him smile
to pull such tricks with cunning and guile.
Old One-Eyed John.
Love Meadow
It's still there, this chosen place
where love is born.
You must go quietly,
early in the morning,
before the birds awake.
Down the hill, beyond the trees,
this soft green meadow,
sprinkled with daffodils,
awaits the coming
of young lovers still.
They come so quietly,
no one hears or sees them.
Softly they lay in the pale green grass
and whisper words of love
neither have heard before.
There's no other sound
for miles around
this loving meadow,
this nest so grand, where first
RoseAnn let me hold her hand.
Look-- the sunlight's rays
break through the morning mist,
dawn is turning into day.
Go quickly now, and don't look back.
No man can pass this way again.
A Dream
A misty, hazy vision came to my sleep
of far away and near forgotten memories,
a place in a place no longer there.
But I was there, and was there before.
There were running and smiling and laughter.
There were sandcastles and leapfrogging,
swinging and climbing, leaping and turning.
There were mighty battles won, and won again,
and tender loving kisses and caresses
on wounds that healed as soft as silk.
Such joy, such bliss, such happiness.....
enough to fill ten thousand cups.
And I was there again.....
just for a moment.
Awake again, with all my being I strained
back through the misty dream and saw
once more my mother's garden
and cried with loneliness.
Papa's Place
It filled his thoughts each single day,
this land, these hills and hollows, this place,
more than a home, more than a wife,
more even than children, more than life.
How comes a man to such obsession?
Is it genetic? Is it learned by lesson?
His frantic drive to own some land,
to feel his soil in his own hand.
In this place I grew to a man
and watched Papa toil in his earth so grand.
The rows plowed straight, the ditches just so,
the fencewire strung tight on posts in a row.
Oh, the sweat that fell from his face
as he nurtured his land and tended his place.
From dawn 'til dusk seven days a week,
he'd toil and strain 'til he fell from his feet.
He'd start again at the crack of dawn,
year after year 'til his back was drawn.
We found him one day on a hill by a tree,
staring down furrows he could not see.
We buried him there in the land he had made,
to rest at last under his tree in his shade.
I'll always remember, remember this place,
this strong man's place, my Papa's place.
Sunday Dinner
Within our little country church
one custom stood apart.
Although it wasn't much to men,
it thrilled the ladies' hearts.
To have the preacher home
to take the Sunday meal
was something very grand,
and surely God's own will.
The ladies of our little church
took turns at this great honor,
and in the midst of all of them
was my devoted Mama.
The preacher came just twice a month,
but Mama got her chance.
The meal she made just thrilled our eyes
and made our taste buds dance.
The dish that was a special treat
and set on every table
was chicken fried a golden brown
and gravy served with silver ladle.
My Mama went about all this
and worked until she couldn't.
And just to top it all off right,
she made some banana pudding.
Now of this very special Sunday,
Leroy, my older brother,
really didn't think a lot--
or Monday or any other.
While all had gone to praise the Lord
and bring the preacher home to eat,
Leroy had somehow disappeared--
for him a not uncommon feat.
We brought the preacher home with pride,
and all the world was right it seemed.
We all washed up on the porch and then
we heard a painful scream.
It was our Mama screaming so;
Leroy had pulled another one.
He'd filled himself with preacher food
and now lay basking in the sun.
Mama's Prayers
At Birth
Oh, dear sweet Lord Jesus,
look at him, just look at him!
This baby, this angel, you sent to me.
You must have searched all over
to find one so fine for me.
Did you see! He smiled.
Did you see him blink his eyes?
Look at his hands, so big and strong.
He's warm and soft and sweet and--
oh, thank you, dear sweet Jesus.
At Two
Dear God, I call to your attention
this little boy you sent me.
He's about two now--
not very big yet, but with a
heart as big as a mountain.
He runs, never walks, so
watch over him when he falls.
He has to touch, examine, and
know "What's that?" of everything--
of "EVERYTHING," everywhere--"EVERYWHERE."
Keep off the bugs and bumps and ants
and bruises. And the dark where
"Nothing's going to get you."
He needs a little protecting, Lord,
him being so busy.
That is why, dear God,
I call to your attention
this little boy you sent me.
P.S. You'll like his little puppy, Ruff.
"He run by a car," he said.
Take good care of Ruff and
send my little boy a sweet dream
or two of him.
Then let him forget, as we all must.
At Four
God, we've got to talk some.
I come to you humbly, of course,
but this boy you sent me--
well, just you look at him--
out the window there-- in that mudhole.
Why, you can hardly see him,
but he's there under all that mud.
I've hosed him off three times today
and bathed him twice, I know.
He won't stay inside.
My house is a wreck.
If I could, I'd go outside too.
Isn't there something you can do?
Amen.
At Six
Dear Lord-- about my baby. My baby?
I sent him off to school today.
He kissed me softly, then held my hand
while we waited for the bus.
He looked back at me through tears
but made no sound as he climbed the steps.
I saw his little head, bowed,
as the yellow monster carried him away.
Oh God, what will I do all day?
Keep an eye on him, please, dear Lord.
Don't let anyone speak harshly to him,
and bring him safely back to me.
At Fourteen
God, it's me again-about this boy.
Now let me be plain-you know I love him,
but really, Lord, the boy's a pain.
I taught him right but he forgot.
And forgets over and over again,
or so he says. Has he a brain?
Am I, or is he, insane?
Right now I don't know where he is.
I've talked and talked and talked to him,
but it's all in vain.
He knows it all and knows nothing.
He won't come out of the rain.
Won't you talk to him?
I really hate to complain.
Amen.
At Twenty
Dear Lord, this prayer is for my son.
You know, the one you sent me twenty
years ago-- or was it yesterday?
He's all grown up now-just look at him!
He is strong and smart and brave.
It's wrong, I guess, but I'm very proud at
the way he's turned out.
I won't be seeing him much now;
he's going away. But every day or so
look in on him, please. He won't need much.
Just a nudge now and then
to help him remember when
I held him in my arms
and kept him safe and warm.
Wrap him in that warm contentment
he felt with me and I with him.
Disasters
God sent down a raging flood
that drowned my Papa's corn,
and Papa went to church and sang
"Blessed Be The Lord."
God sent boll weevils by the score
that ate his cotton squares,
and Papa went to church and sang
"Oh Lord, Thou Art So Fair."
God held his rain and caused a drought
that killed my Papa's field of hay,
and Papa went to church and sang
"Lord, Have Thine Own Way."
Then God made a big mistake.
His whirlwind spilled my Papa's snuff,
and Papa stayed at home next Sunday;
he could not drink this bitter cup.
Noah
Me thinks you, Noah, pulled a joke
on we descendant flea-bit folk.
Did you not get the message right
to leave us in this awful plight?
Just who told you to bring mosquitoes
and ticks that suck your blood to grow?
Was it your plan to bring termites
that feed upon my house at night?
And flies-- just look what you have done!
You must think snakes are lots of fun.
And did you chuckle to yourself
while placing hornets on the shelf?
You must have had a lot to do,
collecting microbes two by two.
Me thinks you must have been a nut;
me hopes a cockroach bit your butt.
'Possum Hunting
He was obsessed, this brother of mine,
with 'possum huntin' in winter time.
With loaded gun and carbide light,
he'd roam the woods 'most every night.
His dog, Old Blue, would tag along.
He'd find a trail and start to moan.
Through thicket, briars, and bobwire fence
Blue'd never lose that 'possum's scent.
Old Blue would lead and Wade would follow,
across the hills and down the hollows,
until at last Old Blue would tree
that 'possum up his p'simmon tree.
Wild-eyed Wade shook the 'possum down,
Old Blue never let him hit the ground.
The 'possum'd hiss a bit, then play dead.
With 'possum in sack, home they'd head.
Cleaned and boiled and served up hot
with sweet potatoes 'round the pot,
a meal like this was 'most as good
as 'possum huntin' in the woods.
JoRae's Boyfriend
It seemed to happen kind of fast;
JoRae blossomed to a handsome lass.
From a skinny, stringy-haired thing
into a smiling angel without wings.
From a spiteful sister who loved to fight
it seemed like almost over night
she turned into a beauty queen.
But then JoRae was just sixteen.
And just as sure as anything
it was programmed in her genes
to find herself a mate,
a special boy to date.
It wasn't long before she found
that special boy and brought him 'round.
Papa met them at the gate.
"What's your name, boy?" / "Nate."
Now Nate was a pretty good old boy.
It was just that Papa found no joy
in seeing his daughter hand in hand
with this young boy who looked like a man.
Besides, he came from over the hill
where the army camp was. But still,
Papa knew there was no talking to JoRae.
He'd have to find another way.
It was Saturday when Nate came to call
and Saturday was a working day, and all
in our family knew it very well.
Somehow JoRae forgot to tell
old Nate that Saturday was no time
to come to our house and expect to dine
on Mama's cooking and all the while
gaze in JoRae's pale blue eyes.
It was dinner time and Nate was there.
"Come on in," Papa said. "Pull up a chair.
"Heavenly Father pardon our sins,
make us thankful for these and all
other blessings for Christ sake amen."
"Have some peas. Some okra. Have some corn bread."
What Papa said next, he shouldn't have said.
"Where you from, boy?" / "New York, sir." /
JoRae cringed. "Now what'd he say that fer?"
Papa froze. For what seemed like years,
there was such a silence it hurt our ears.
Then finally Papa bounced up from his chair,
went out on the porch and just sat there.
Poor old Nate didn't know what to think.
He looked at JoRae, then Mama, and saw her wink.
He could breath again, but never could he guess
what he was in for before this sun set.
"Yankee boy," Papa said, "we got work to do.
You'll know what I mean before we're through."
Old Nate had never seen a turning plow
and had no earthly idea just how
to go about this farming thing.
Papa wasted no time in having me bring
the fastest plow mare from the shed.
"Down there's the field." That's all Papa said.
Nate fought that plow like a man possessed.
He never paused to take a rest.
Up and down the rows he went
behind Old Dollie so fast it sent
the dirt flying far and wide,
'til finally old Nate just couldn't hide
his utter exhaustion and lack of will.
He staggered back to camp just over the hill.
JoRae cried and pouted for a while,
glared at Papa and wouldn't smile.
But time has a way of healing things.
It wasn't long before she'd bring
another boy home for Papa to meet.
She'd schooled the new one well--no more defeat,
no more crying, and no more torture.
"Where you from, boy?" / "A little farm in Georgia."
Playing Yesterday
We really knew how to play!
The work was long and hard,
but when we got a chance to play
we made the most of it--
chaperoned, of course.
Hayrides were real hayrides, on
flatbed wagons padded with sweet smelling hay
and pulled by lively mules over
bumpy country roads at night,
everybody singing.
Saturday night parties,
chaperoned, of course,
were events to set the
calendar by. I can close
my eyes and see again
the girls awhirling,
their long hair trailing,
the boys tap dancing
and rabbit dancing.
I can hear the fiddling
and the rhythmic stamping
of heavy shoes on
wooden floors and
Mrs. McCarty calling for
Joe and Becky to
come back on the porch.
The long walk home
was fantasy time, enhanced
by the lingering fragrance
of vanilla, the memory
of a stolen kiss,
and the dance--
chaperoned, of course.
The Old Homeplace
Jim, this very busy brother of mine,
had been away a long, long time.
He'd gone off to a far off town
and gained some measure of renown.
We all were happy as could be
to see him unexpectedly
at our yearly family fest.
He seemed more like a special guest.
When all the talking had been done,
and all the prizes had been won,
he turned to me to say,
"Let's go out to the old place, Ray."
"Let's go," I said, without a thought.
I did not know what ghosts he'd brought
back home within his mind
where they'd been stored so long a time.
As we rode through the countryside
he seemed to take it all in stride.
But as we neared the old homeplace
a strange expression crossed his face.
"My God! What's happened here?" he said.
"Where're the fields, the fences, the sheds?
And where's the barn? The big oak tree?"
A thousand where's he asked of me.
He then grew quiet and said no more
as we went to the old front door.
He walked about from room to room,
that seemed as still as a graveyard tomb.
"Is this the bedroom where we slept?
it seems so small. Could it have kept
the two of us and all our things?
We reigned in here like we were kings."
"Is that the porch that seemed so wide?
Is that the place you used to hide?"
He now no longer talked to me,
he looked at things he could not see.
As we rode back into town,
Jim seemed to want to turn around.
He said, "We have to buy it back.
I'll call someone before I pack."
I did not know how to reply
to his memories that would not die.
He said next day as he boarded his plane,
"It's true, 'You can't go home again.' "
Salvation Day
It happened Sunday a long time ago,
when old Preacher Joe made up his mind
to save us boys from our wicked old ways,
to cleanse our souls, and bring us in line.
We weren't much concerned with the whole affair.
But Preacher Joe had planned it well.
He'd given this thing considerable thought,
just how to save our souls from hell.
We went to church in our Sunday best clothes,
as was the custom in those days,
to hear how Satan snares young folks
if they keep up their sinful ways.
We weren't half listening to old Preacher Joe.
We'd heard all his preachings before.
Then without warning he jumped the pulpit,
glared at us and let out a roar.
"THE ALMIGHTY GOD IS TALKING TO YOU!
YOU SINNERS BEST LISTEN TO ME!
ON THIS DAY YOU'LL SEE THE POWER OF GOD
WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES THAT BIG OAK TREE."
We youngsters were attached to that old oak tree.
We thought its soul was surely purged.
Scheduled for heaven, it surely must be
after all the preaching it'd heard.
As we were pondering on all these things
the sky grew dark. It thundered so
it rattled the church and shook the pews
and brought more threats from Preacher Joe.
Then from nowhere came a bolt of lightning.
It missed the church but lit up the choir.
All this encouraged our Preacher Joe
spew more words of hell and fire.
This was enough to get our attention.
No more of this childish fooling around.
We ran down the aisle with fear and trembling.
From that day no better boys could be found.
"Brothers and sisters," cried old Preacher Joe,
"the Lord wrenched these sinful boys
right from the hands of Lucifer.
Now they can experience heaven's joys."
"We'll baptize these sinners before sunset."
And baptized we were, good and deep,
our evil sins all washed away
in muddy, murky Tallahatchie Creek.
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All
Day Singing and Dinner on the Ground
Once each year in early summer,
that special day occurred.
For weeks before it came about,
that day was all we heard.
All Day Singing and Dinner
on the Ground was really some event.
The ladies made all kinds of food,
and everybody went.
The prim and proper preacher's wife
took charge at these affairs.
Most folks just ignored her
and said she put on airs.
The men would wear their working clothes,
fresh washed and smelling clean;
for also on this special day
was when the graves were cleaned.
We kids would mostly run about
and talk of haints and ghosts,
for in the graveyard up the hill
was where they kept those gruesome folk.
We'd stuff ourselves with sandwiches
and wash them down with tea.
We'd sneak an extra piece of pie
and hide behind a tree.
While older folks would sit and talk,
we'd run off in the woods.
We'd swing on vines and climb in gullies
and get as dirty as we could.
The perfect day would finally end.
No better day will there be found,
when folks would meet for All Day Singing
and Dinner on the Ground.
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The Methodist Ghost
The truth is what I'll tell to you.
It happened long ago,
and I will swear upon God's word,
so you will know it's so.
There was within our country world
two groups of country folk.
They went to different churches
that were somewhat remote.
We were the Hardshell Baptists
and very proud of it.
They, the wayward Methodists,
up from the devil's pit.
Old Preacher Joe had warned us all
to stay from such,
for they would sprinkle, not baptize,
as it was done with us.
But worse there was, I hate to say,
a graveyard guest the Methodists kept
to keep us Baptists on our toes
and scare us half to death.
That day I'd been to visit Jesse,
a boyhood friend of mine.
Now it had gotten dusky dark.
I'd failed to watch the time.
My horse, Old Sam, on which I rode
was speedy as could be.
We raced hard down the dusty road
as long as we could see.
When we reached that wayward church
the moon was full and bright.
it shone through trees in back of us
and cast an eerie light.
The church was down a hollow low,
the graveyard on a hill.
The road we took went right between;
all was quiet and still.
With gritted teeth and reins held tight,
I rode this dreadful place;
and standing tall just halfway through
was a haint without a face.
I held onto old skittish Sam
and spurred with all my might.
Now that thing was on my horse
moaning, "H-o-l-d o-n t-I-g-h-t."
He had no need to tell me that
the haint was in command.
Old Sammy's feet tore up the ground
to flee that faceless man.
As we raced through the final curve
that led down to our place,
he hopped right off and disappeared,
that haint without a face.
If you should want to go out there,
I will not be your host;
I want no more communion there
where lives a faceless ghost.
Injun Joe
Our Mama had her bugger-bears
to keep us kids in line.
I have to say it worked quite well
a good part of the time.
But when it failed as we got older
and boldly said there's no such thing,
my Mama had another scare
just waiting in the wings.
It was her tale of Injun Joe,
who lived deep in the woods.
He came into the house at night,
to take the kids who were not good.
He'd take them deep into his cave
and eat them, hair and all.
If we should stay out after dark
we might just hear him call.
We later saw Old Injun Joe
when he came to our house.
He'd come to visit our dear Papa,
his cousin we found out.
Uncle Ned
Throughout the country he was known
as Uncle Ned the drunk.
He never drew a sober breath,
they said, and scared folks half to death.
He'd drive the country roads at night
in his old beat up truck.
He'd make a stop at every joint,
and fill his belly up.
His friends would give him plenty room
as he weaved down the road,
but folks who did not know him well
would damn Old Ned to hell.
I kind'a liked Old Ned myself.
He told the wildest tales.
The ones he seemed to like the best
were those that landed him in jail.
He'd swear he was as sober as
the judge who locked him up.
All too often he was right;
the judge was also known to prowl at night.
The tale I liked to hear the most,
and one he often told,
was of the night he lost his teeth
and damn near lost his soul.
He wasn't drunk that night, he said,
"As sober as a judge."
He'd worked hard all that blessed day,
doing what he'd never say.
As he drove down the Bethel Road
the moon was big and bright
and he could see for miles ahead.
He didn't need no lights.
Then out of nowhere came this elephant
that slammed into his pickup truck.
It jarred his teeth right from his head.
The sheriff thought Old Ned was dead.
He took Ned to the undertaker,
who covered him with wreaths.
Next morning Uncle Ned was gone.
He'd not be buried with no teeth.
Old Della
She hoed in the fields on Monday,
the washing she did on Tuesday.
But she was late for Tuesday chores,
and Ma'am was mad as all outdoors.
Old Della really was not old,
no more than thirty, we were told.
Quite big she was, as strong as a man,
and black, they said, as a fry'n pan.
Her eyes were fierce; she seldom smiled
except when she played with a child.
When with adults, she'd turn her head.
They said her eyes would scare the dead.
As a child, that was most strange to me.
I often sat upon her knee.
She'd sit and rock and hum real low
like something inside her wouldn't let go.
At last she came in ragged coat.
Ma'am had put clothes in to soak.
"Where have you been? You know you're late?
Now get in here and close that gate."
Della'd scrubbed the clothes and hung them out
when Sam, her man, came to the house.
"I know Del told you now alright,
she borned a baby late last night."
Old Della fixed her steely eyes,
her savage scream attacked the skies.
Just why she killed Sam no one knew.
Some said it was not Sam she slew.
Pete
"Y'all come on in; have a seat.
Make yourself at home," Pete would say.
"How y'all taking this heat?
Would you like a cup of coffee?"
That's what Pete always said.
Then he'd say, "Been fishing lately?
Catch any big ones?
I was over at Legion Lake Monday--
or maybe it was Tuesday--anyway. . . "
Oh, the tales he told!
Some true, some half true,
some plain lies without a doubt.
But on he went. What a thrill
to hear him spin his tales.
He'd say, "Did I tell you
what happened at Blackhawk?"
With squinted eyes and serious face,
he'd set the scene. "You know the place--
that stump at the upper end.
There's a log just under the water
by a big cypress tree.
I hung one just over that log.
He got loose and jumped up on
that stump--look like he had
hair on his back. Then he
flopped over by that cypress
tree and climbed up it and
I sat right there and watched that
thing spread his wings and
fly off up the lake and light
in a persimmon tree by Borden Gulley."
We'd sit there, big eyed and mouths open.
Then Pete's sly smile and glinted eye
would turn into a broad grin
and gale of laughter. He'd slap
his knees and lean back in his chair,
satisfied deep down inside.
"It's the truth."
That's what Pete would say.
Politics
On 'lection year they came to town,
all puffed up, these silly clowns.
Somehow they had it in their heads
that farmers bought the things they said.
My Papa really liked these shows.
He'd dress up in his best work clothes
and spend the day around the square
to hear these braggards lie and swear.
The lesser candidates spoke first,
like supervisors and the sheriff.
Then came the more important folks,
the ones who told the better jokes.
The governor'd come with much fanfare.
He'd sweat and swear and fan the air;
he'd promise this with clenched fist
and promise that and pass the hat.
At sundown when this show would end,
all these clowns were sure they'd win.
What fools they were, my Papa'd note,
but never tell us how he'd vote.
Wounds of War II
Where she came from no one knew,
she just took up a back row pew.
Her name was Norma, we found out.
It all was strange without a doubt.
At least it seemed that way to us,
because adults would not discuss
this girl of mystery with us boys
and talked of her in quieted voice.
She held a bundle in her arms,
as if to shield it from some harm.
She'd sit there quietly all alone,
then quickly hurry to her home.
Her home was not so far away,
just down the road, as we would say.
I walked behind her to her house
to see what she was all about.
The house she lived in was a shack,
and I could see between the cracks.
The room inside was bare, but neat,
just one small bed on which to sleep,
A rocker by a small cook stove,
it all looked worn and very old.
She sang and rocked a little child,
and gazed with love into his eyes.
She sang of Johnny and marching home,
of how they'd see him one day soon,
of Daddy bringing rabbit fur,
and how someday he'd marry her
Paper Towels
With bells ringing and sirens screaming
the firetrucks roared into his yard.
The neighbors ran out and jumped about
to help put out the fire.
But look--wait--coming through the gate
is old McMorgan, dancing and slapping his knees.
"It's done," he said. "That wife I wed
has learned herself a lesson."
"I burned 'um all from bathroom, kitchen, and hall.
She filled the house with them damn things."
"He's 'off' badly," his neighbors said sadly.
"What brought all this about?"
"Paper towels!" he hollered, as he followed
the crowd to the back of the house.
"Hear them roar!" he said, going through the door
to get one more he'd forgotten.
"I've told that wife for all my life
a plain old dishrag was all she needed.
So there you see what came to be
when she got hooked on paper towels.
"I caught her gone away from home
and stacked them neatly in the yard.
With kerosene can and match in hand,
I soaked and burned them devils."
In front of the house, as quiet as a mouse,
a pickup pulled into the driveway.
It was that woman he married, not at all harried,
restocking the house with paper towels.
Part Two: Epilogue
Roses of Brigadoon
The house where I was born
was set upon a hill.
Red roses lines the paths
with colors we could feel.
The valley down below
would fill with morning mist.
It drifted gently upward
and left each rose a kiss.
There were five lively rooms
with beds for ten of us.
The food at every meal
was more than just enough.
Our clothes were warm and clean
and handed down with care.
The girls wore clothes from flour sacks,
red ribbons decked their hair.
How very rich we were,
and all our neighbors, too.
The world in which we lived
was always fresh and new.
Then sister Becky married
and left our peaceful world.
She had no way to know
the storm she'd set awhirl.
She'd come back now and then
and bring us store-bought clothes.
My valley lost its morning mist, the
fragrance left the rose.
Storeroom for Dreams
The sun rose red and lit the clouds,
awakening the dawn.
A rooster flew up on the fence
and sounded his alarm.
The cool, crisp, summer morning air
lay heavy, still, and thick.
Birds scurried to and from their nests
to feed their hungry chicks.
We children hurried to our chores,
while Mama lit the stove.
My Papa walked out in the field
to check the cotton rows.
This dream of long gone days I dream
each night I go to sleep;
then I awake and it is gone
and silently I weep.
If I could go where dreams are stored
and somehow keep me there,
I'd go back to the old homeplace;
I'm sure God stores them there somewhere.
C'est la Vie?
Conceived in muddy water?
The lightning called me son?
You say it was a billion years
I lived in these environs?
And eons passed before I swam
Into the open sea
And slowly, slowly grew
To a size one's eye could see?
Millions and millions of years went by,
Or maybe billions more,
Before I grew some stubby feet
And crawled up on the shore?
Since such time I've roamed the earth,
While cousins learned to fly?
Are you quite sure of this?
This thing was really I?
Such a long time borning!
Four billion years or more?
Please, then tell me why so soon,
Death comes knocking at my door!
Bird's-eye View
A genetic aberration
has crawled out from the sea,
as heinous disfiguration
as ever eye did see.
It has no fins to give it form,
It has no wings to fly.
It has no wool to keep it warm,
no oil to keep it dry.
Its odor is so loathsome,
all creatures, large and small,
scurry fast and far away
from this foulest smell of all.
And what is worse, I hate to say,
it gives itself a name,
and, shameless, goes along its way,
vaunting, Homo sapiens!
The Mutant
No man knows my name,
Yet I'm known by all.
Man has need of me,
I can hear him call.
Some have called me id.
(What a silly word)
I am so much more,
(Id) is quite absurd.
Chained am I in man,
Deep within his bowel,
Waiting for the time
Of my certain trial.
Came I to this fate
Many eons past,
Long before mankind's
Noble soul was cast.
In those long past days,
Man and I were one;
From one mold we came,
Spawned in summer's sun.
Man turned from his course,
Mutant now is he,
Not free and happy,
As he wants to be.
Look about you, Man,
Watch the eagle soar!
Listen in the wind,
Hear the tiger roar!
Reach down in your bowel!
Tear these chains from me!
One we'll be again,
Running wild and free.
the journey
a
lone
swan glides
with beauty and grace
into the splendor of open space
and, joined by others, they start the race
from or to (they know not which) that sacred place
from whence they all are led (or driven) at hurried pace
with mighty strokes they beat the restless air
seeming unaware, nor, perhaps, to care
their journey's end, or where
for rest they dare
to come back
down to
e
a
r
t
h
Programmed
I stood upon a hill and watched
a teeming horde of ants,
forever racing to and fro,
as if they were entranced.
Around each other, in and out,
then up and down they'd go
in wild and frenzied undulations,
but still all in a row.
I wondered why they rushed about,
as one came up to me.
it was my wife who left the line,
to bring me home to tea.
Pretend
Another day was just beginning,
and I had lots of things to do;
the endless chores I knew for sure,
that day I simply had to do.
Then Caleb came to visit me
and helped me with my many chores.
He worked so hard, this little lad, with
heart as big as all outdoors.
I turned the soil and then looked back.
He'd caught a fish, or so he said,
and held it high above his head.
He said, "Let's play pretend, Grandad."
He climbed the highest mountain tops,
and soared the sky where eagles fly.
I planted row on row of corn,
and proudly laid my cotton by.
No one can know where all he went,
this precious child with his pretending.
But I had much more fun than he,
pretending I was just pretending.
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