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Poem of the Week
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My Life Begins
Kee Post
Winter Haven
During the 19th Century my ancestors settled down
In the beautiful mountains of Virginia 5 miles from town
Acres and acres of choice land is what everyone saw
And a grant from the king had given it all to my Grandpa
He deeded some to his eight kids-plots up and down the hill
Kept an active farm for himself and an active saw mill
My Dad built a house on his share of the land
For his school-teacher bride who gave him her hand
My kids soon came along, numbering four
One boy, a namesake, and three girls to adore
Our Uncles with wives soon neighbors became
But for two married Aimts. All shared the same name.
Cousins by the dozens found fun in the creek
Played baseball and tag and even hide-and-seek
Of fa,o;u si,er [ocmocs. A;; were qiote fpmd
Sleigh-riding in winter and skating on the pond
All of our families shared the same things--
Outhouses, kerosene lamps, fresh water from springs
Its ice-cold mountain flavor holds memories untold
And Grandpa held the water rights-worth pure gold
Each family raised a big garden on the side of a hill
And ate healthy "veggies,' with canning jars to fill
Dozens of chickens furnished fresh eggs galore,
With plenty left over for Uncle John's store.
My Mama's fried chicken earned her County fame,
Her chicken and dumplings were loved almost the same
The men raised fat hogs and butchered them in the fall
We shared bacon, pork chops and Virginia Hams, loved by all
All had their own cow, leaving none to buy milk for
Our wild strawberry ice-cream was the kind you'd die for!!
Thus began my life in "Pot Likker Hollow"
Great things have come about in the many years to follow.
ALWAYS EASTER
Grace V. Watkins
You say it happened long ago
And in a far-off-land
Where men and women spoke a tongue
I would not understand,
That centuries have come and gone
Since that triumphant day,
And that garden where he walked
Is half a world away.
He walks in every garden, friend;
And every rock-sealed tomb
Opens'neath His shining hand
As springtime flowers bloom.
For every dawn is Easter dawn:
On every sunrise hill
The earthbound glimpse eternity
And meet the Masters still.
Let us, then, plant with dilignece
And care the garden of the soil, but
Let us, with far deeper earnestness,
Tend the garden of our heart
(from The Cottage Gardener, 1849
MY OLD FORD
This is an excerpt from one of the poems my dad, Lloyd Perry from Baxter, Iowa, used to recite to me. He told me had had learned the poems in school back in the '20s and '30s.
My old Ford, they all make fun.
They say it was born in 1901.
It may be so, but I'll bet
It's still good for many long miles yet.
The windshield's gone and the radiator leaks,
The fan belt slips and the horsepower squeaks,
It makes the nuts and screws all loose,
But I get 40 miles on a gallon of juice.
While I can't burn gas, I burn Kerosene,
And I have driven home on Paris green.
It's got a rattle in the front and a grind in the rear
And a Chinese puzzle on the steering gear.
The coils are dead and the plugs won't fire,
And the piston rings are baling wire.
In spite of all that, it pulls me through,
And that's all any car can do.
-- Judy Mitchell, Eldora, Iowa
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