Well, it has certainly been a while since I have posted anything on this blog. But I have been writing. My writing work has been active in my stories for Family Tree Maker genealogy updates. I also currently am a member of a small memoir/writing group associated with my church. We only meet once a month and just read out output to each other. But this keeps me a little honest with my time devoted to writing.
Here is a little ditty that I wrote about my childhood especially on my grandparents farm next door.
Childhood Memories: Not prose but not poetry, just word pictures
This is a story about a rooster who senses a little girl’s fears,
About Grandma’s little girl visiting less often ‘cause of that cocky leghorn bastard,
I just have to get around that tree, up behind the peonies and I’ll be at the backdoor.
It’s about a delicious Sunday dinner served family style, with a large, maybe somewhat tough,
but well oven browned bird in the center of the table.
It’s also a story of the life of a little grandaughter on the farm.
The field corn filling the corn shed; a place we avoided ‘cause of the rodents.
The hayloft, a magical gigantic space, reached by treacherous ladders,
Which isolated two children from life below and out there.
The covey of pigeons that provided company above us,
And hundreds of bales of hay that formed impervious forts.
This is also a story about the round shoulder-high milk can cooling tank,
And the rail and pulley system to swing the milk cans across the drive.
The bottom hook provided just the size seat for a little girl and her cousin
To swing across in place of a can and drop, oh, so excitedly into that cool water
On a hot summer day.
Try not to slip on the algae covered bottom to avoid a dunking.
No, sometimes it’s just fun to purposely dunk.
This is a story about feeling helpful, pulling the rope back,
When hay was being fork lifted into the hay mow.
About Grandma driving those big plodding work horses to lift that hay load up and into the barn.
About a little girl feeling important enough to ride with Grandma on the hayrack
Delivering lunch time snacks to the men in the hot fields,
Nutritious andwiches, and cold lemonade. so sweet.
This is a story about the warmth in that long barn in the dead of winter,
Each cow in its own individual stanchion, patiently waiting and eating,
While the milking machines work their relief.
About the bull in that first pen; he didn’t look so mean when penned up inside.
I tried to stare him down; Grandma warns me.
About my love for the gentle young bawling calves 2 pens over.
And the hardworking barn cats patiently waiting for some left over fresh warm milk at the end of the chores.
This is a story about my grandfather in the barn breaking into song
Rather than talking deeply with his little grand daughter.
Remembering my deep discussions with my grandmother in the farmhouse.
The large wooden phone on the wall rings the coded party line ring.
It’s not Grandma’s ring but she interrupts our discussion to carefully pick up the earpiece.
Some sort of gossip has interrupted our deep discussion.
Aww. Now she’ll have to ring “central” to pass that gossip on.
Ah, I remember Grandma’s kitchen table; salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl, and clear creamer;
Covered butter dish, napkin holder, and breadbox, in the center
All covered by a large square of ivory linen.
Out back a huge fenced in garden grew tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, salsify, green onions, and sweet corn.
Oh, I remember stealing a blanched ear of that bright yellow corn,
While Grandma sits out in the yard, cutting the corn from the cob, to can it.
This is a story about the large windmill turning with a recurrent squeak
Pumping water for the yearling calves in that tiny pasture.
Next to the windmill, is the chicken house.
where you can still smell what happened one dark night.
Awakened by a screeching kerfluffel and a barking dog, Grandma knew there was trouble.
The faithful farm dog exited the chicken house rubbing its nose and rolling agitatedly in the grass.
The skunk got away, but the chickens were safe.
For the dog, it took weeks.
I remember going with Grandma on the tractor, down to the river bottoms
To find the cow that had come fresh, with her calf.
If you find the calf and carry it in your arms, the cow will follow back to the barn.
Other trips down to the river bottoms to harvest the hickory tree nuts.
I remember the barn owl with a hurt wing. Grandma tied a string around its leg,
and fed it an occasional mouse out of a trap.
It lived inside the almost empty silo until its flapping announced its readiness to fly again.
And I remember my other Grandfather and his threshing ring.
Such a noisy grain gobbling machine.
The whole ring of farmers gathered to move farm to farm until the harvest was done.
My mother helped Grandma feed this large crew a huge nourishing dinner at noon.
This little grand daughter was kept busy painting the back wooden walkway with water as all those booted feet walked past.
The men attached to those boots would sit out in front of the farmhouse
Under the evergreen trees and just digest for a little while.
The granddaughter rushed to her grandfather’s lap and felt safe.
Ah, so many of these activities occur no more. But they are etched in my memory
And just writing this has lighted them up and carried them on.
By Ann Selzer
