I’m inspired by things that happen
To brighten up the day.
I love to watch the break of dawn
When the birds come out to play.
And then there come the cotton tails
Hopping along the road.
They love to come out in the morning light
From their bramble bush abode.
Then hear the squirrels chatter
As they hustle through the trees,
With cheeks puffed up with hazelnuts
To store for the winter’s freeze.
The bees are humming all around
The honeysuckle bush,
Whose strong clean scent of sweet perfume
Permeates the morning hush.
The cows are lowing at the barn.
It’s time to open the gate.
The morning chores are next in line
‘Tis hurry, the cows won’t wait.
Now hear the chickens cackle.
It’s time to feed the hogs.
And then its out to the old wood hut,
To gather the winter logs.
‘Tis great to live down on the farm
Where nature rules your fate.
To hear the song of the mocking bird
From out the garden gate.
Soon the days will shorten.
Mother gets out the winter coats.
Just hear that old mare whinny,
Begging for a feed of oats.
As the days get dark and dreary,
And the snow blankets the land,
We sit around by the old log fire,
Listening to a cowboy band.
Then it’s off to sleep in a nice warm bed
With my head on a pillow of down.
I really love it down on the farm
More peaceful than living in town.
*****
I never thought of Grandpa Don as a farm kid. I knew he grew up on the Oregon coast and that when my mom was a little girl he was a commercial fisherman. I guess I just always assumed that his father was a fisherman as well. But no; Grandpa Don was a farm boy who knew what it was like to put in a full days hard work from an early age. While I'm sure there were times he just wanted a break, years later he could look back fondly at all the hard work of his youth. It's amazing how different our childhoods were; he had the daily chores of feeding the animals and chopping logs, while I was supposed to put away the clean dishes everyday and mow the lawn once a week. Oh how easy my life has been in comparison.
Unlike Grandpa Don, I shudder at the thought of taking care of pigs. When I was in ninth grade I raised a hog as part of my agricultural science class. I thought it would be fun, and if nothing else I would at least get to touch a pig. I was wrong. While I did get to touch a pig on day one, it was anything but fun. Chasing 30 piglets in the rain and mud to give them a shot in the rump only to have them immediately poo all over themselves, and in the process you, is not my idea of fun. The year I had that pig included many days like that; shoveling out the pens, transporting them to the fair, narrowly avoiding a pig attack in the presentation ring, the list goes on. But who knows, maybe when I have a little more experience and the past is a little farther in the past I'll be able to look back fondly and laugh (or at least not feel sick to my stomach).
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Dad
Picture if you will, in the winter’s chill.
A bouncing mountain stream.
Sheltered by the trees, where the northern breeze
Blows icy cold, and mean.
Where the trees stand stark, in their frozen bark,
And the ferns are bent with snow.
Where the trailing moss, like Christmas floss,
Floats gracefully to and fro.
And the steel head jumps the rapids white,
On his lonely trek from the sea,
Ever darting, onward, upward,
To mate, as it’s meant to be.
There’s many a scene, that meets the eye,
On a blustery winter’s day.
If you stand real still by the water’s edge,
You many watch the otters play,
As they slip and slide down a wet clay bank,
And splash in the water with glee.
Though the air by cold, and the brush be dank,
There’s much beauty, for the eye to see.
The furtive doe with big, dark eyes,
Slips down to drink in the stream.
Then quickly fades in the underbrush,
‘twas as if it had been a dream.
It was here as a child, Dad brought me to this wild,
And lonely fishing hole.
‘twas here as a child, I felt the first thrill,
Of a tug on my little, wooden pole.
How he struggled and pulled, and tore at my gear,
Then dance in the air on his tail.
As I trembled and shook, with an inner fear.
I must catch him! I must not fail!
There’s many a time, in the after years,
When life has given me a thrill.
And many a time, when the days were dark,
It has caused my blood to chill.
As I lean back, in my easy chair,
In the warmth of the fireside glow.
My thoughts drift back to that long ago day,
And the finest man I know.
How I’d love to go back, on a wintry day,
To sit by the wild fishing hole.
And feels once more, the thrill of a catch,
With my Dad, and my dog, and my little wooden pole.
*****
I remember Grandpa Mark only vaguely. I couldn't have been more than four when I saw him. To me he looked ancient; if he wasn't 100 he was close. An old blind man in a wheel chair in California, if I remember correctly. Grandpa Don remembered him differently; he wasn't always old. Even Grandpa Don was once just Don, a little boy fishing with the finest man he knew.
After only one poem I've already learned something Grandpa Don and I share in common: great respect for our fathers. I can't enumerate all of the qualities that make my dad the finest man I know, but as far as my Grandpa Don was concerned, he never had to worry about how his youngest daughter (my mom) was treated. My dad taught me respect for women, and Grandpa Don could rest easy knowing that he taught me that lesson through his own example.
My dad wanted so much to give me memories like the one in this poem. We didn't do much fishing, but that's OK, I never really cared for it anyway. If I were to write my own poem entitled Dad it wouldn't be about fishing or camping. It would look back at my dad singing me to sleep at night and what I feel now as I sing lullabies to my own child.
*****
I remember Grandpa Mark only vaguely. I couldn't have been more than four when I saw him. To me he looked ancient; if he wasn't 100 he was close. An old blind man in a wheel chair in California, if I remember correctly. Grandpa Don remembered him differently; he wasn't always old. Even Grandpa Don was once just Don, a little boy fishing with the finest man he knew.
After only one poem I've already learned something Grandpa Don and I share in common: great respect for our fathers. I can't enumerate all of the qualities that make my dad the finest man I know, but as far as my Grandpa Don was concerned, he never had to worry about how his youngest daughter (my mom) was treated. My dad taught me respect for women, and Grandpa Don could rest easy knowing that he taught me that lesson through his own example.
My dad wanted so much to give me memories like the one in this poem. We didn't do much fishing, but that's OK, I never really cared for it anyway. If I were to write my own poem entitled Dad it wouldn't be about fishing or camping. It would look back at my dad singing me to sleep at night and what I feel now as I sing lullabies to my own child.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Grandpa Don knew I liked mashed potatoes
One Thanksgiving he saw me fill my plate so full of them that there wasn't room for anything else. From that moment on, Grandpa Don knew that Matt liked spuds. He also knew I would do just about any amount of yard work if we went and got a whopper afterward. And do you remember that commercial for Werther's Originals where the grandpa talks about how his grandpa gave him tasty butter candies? Well, Grandpa Don called them "Picker-uppers" and always had them on hand to share when the morning was dragging on.
My most vivid memories of Grandpa Don are cleaning up the yard. You may be thinking that means weeding flowerbeds, mowing the lawn, and so on. Not my yard. I grew up on two and a half acres of old farm in western Washington. There was a field in the front and forest in the back, kind of like a mullet. After a storm the yard would be covered with fallen tree limbs. Early the following Saturday Grandpa Don would come down the long gravel driveway in his pickup, ready to put some lazy kids to work. My parents raised us kids thinking that "fart" was a bad word, so you can imagine our surprise when the first words we heard those mornings included a real swear. "Wipe the chicken (excrement) out of your eyes," he'd say. We'd get up, dress warm, and mentally prepare ourselves for a few hours of "hard labor" on a cold, wet, Pacific Northwest morning.
Picking up piles of wet branches and putting them into the back of a truck wasn't so bad once you got through the first hour and Grandpa Don shared the first round of "Picker-uppers." One time he let me, an eight year-old boy, drive the truck. That was a mistake. No damage was done, but it took a while before he trusted me to operate anything of his after that. I don't remember Grandpa Don sharing very much about himself, but he would listen to us and laugh often.
The last time I saw Grandpa Don was in the summer of 2000. My twin brother Paul, my parents, and I drove down to Coos Bay, Oregon to visit him and his wife Barbara. I figured this would be the last time I saw him as I would soon leave for France for an extended period of time. During this visit, two things happened that I don't remember ever happening before. First, Grandpa Don gave me a big hug and said "I love you." His love for me was never in question, but that is the only time I can remember him saying it. Second, I heard him quote poetry that he had written.
After his passing a few months later, his surviving daughters put together a collection of his poems for the family to have and cherish. Now, nearly a decade later, events have led me to a desire to get to know Grandpa Don better. I hope that by sharing his poems, writing what I learn from them, and inviting other family members to comment on their own memories that I can begin to know the man that I remember as Grandpa Don, the man to whom I owe my hairline.
My most vivid memories of Grandpa Don are cleaning up the yard. You may be thinking that means weeding flowerbeds, mowing the lawn, and so on. Not my yard. I grew up on two and a half acres of old farm in western Washington. There was a field in the front and forest in the back, kind of like a mullet. After a storm the yard would be covered with fallen tree limbs. Early the following Saturday Grandpa Don would come down the long gravel driveway in his pickup, ready to put some lazy kids to work. My parents raised us kids thinking that "fart" was a bad word, so you can imagine our surprise when the first words we heard those mornings included a real swear. "Wipe the chicken (excrement) out of your eyes," he'd say. We'd get up, dress warm, and mentally prepare ourselves for a few hours of "hard labor" on a cold, wet, Pacific Northwest morning.
Picking up piles of wet branches and putting them into the back of a truck wasn't so bad once you got through the first hour and Grandpa Don shared the first round of "Picker-uppers." One time he let me, an eight year-old boy, drive the truck. That was a mistake. No damage was done, but it took a while before he trusted me to operate anything of his after that. I don't remember Grandpa Don sharing very much about himself, but he would listen to us and laugh often.
The last time I saw Grandpa Don was in the summer of 2000. My twin brother Paul, my parents, and I drove down to Coos Bay, Oregon to visit him and his wife Barbara. I figured this would be the last time I saw him as I would soon leave for France for an extended period of time. During this visit, two things happened that I don't remember ever happening before. First, Grandpa Don gave me a big hug and said "I love you." His love for me was never in question, but that is the only time I can remember him saying it. Second, I heard him quote poetry that he had written.
After his passing a few months later, his surviving daughters put together a collection of his poems for the family to have and cherish. Now, nearly a decade later, events have led me to a desire to get to know Grandpa Don better. I hope that by sharing his poems, writing what I learn from them, and inviting other family members to comment on their own memories that I can begin to know the man that I remember as Grandpa Don, the man to whom I owe my hairline.
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