When spring came along about May the first
And Mother felt winter was over
We kids could see the look on her face
Then one by one we’d run for cover.
For out would come the old wooden tub
And we knew we were due for a wash.
Strong soap and a brush to scrub with
“Twas no use to hide in the brush.
‘Cause first she’d catch the crawling ones
Who weren’t fast enough to hide.
And dump them in together
And line them up side by side.
Next she’d catch us one by one
And hold us down on the floor.
Then snip the seams of our winter underwear
Up the back from the little trap door.
After us mom and dad would shoo us out in the yard
Then join one another in the tub,
And have a good bath together.
As they scraped and scrubbed real hard.
‘Twas real tough for poor old Grandpa
Whose turn would come at the end.
About all he’d have lift to scrub with was a tub full of wet, gray sand.
How he’d growl and grumble at the feeling
As the sand would scratch his hide.
And swear that when he was younger
He’d bathed in a creek outside.
But I noticed that always my mother
Would check him over with care.
Sometimes she would find as he finished
He’d still be wearing a spare.
She knew than that late in the fall
As she sewed us up for the fair.
That grandpa had slipped one over.
Just put on the second pair.
*****
I have no idea if this poem is autobiographical, but one thing is for sure: gross! I shower everyday and I still get pimples. If I didn't bathe all winter long I'm pretty sure I would be nothing more than a mass of red bumps with little white heads. Seriously, just gross!
In this poem I did find something Grandpa Don and I share; we both like to write silly things. Instead of poems, I write TV shows. None of them have ever been picked up, heck I haven't even really tried to market them yet. But I do dream of seeing one of my shows on TV some day. I wonder what Grandpa Don wanted done with his poetry. He probably never even imagined it being available for anyone in the world to read. Well, it's out there now. I wonder if anyone is reading. I guess it doesn't matter, really. I'll keep sharing Grandpa Don's poems and my thoughts until they're done.
When I was younger, a love of writing poetry was something Grandpa Don and I shared. I would go to his house down the driveway- we would read each other our newest creations and he would teach me all about meter and stuff. I do not know that it is true, but he would always tell me I had a "natural knack for it." I know that he entered some poetry contests and mentioned more than once that he would someday like to have them in a book. I think he secretly dreamed of being published, but like you and your TV shows-I don't know how hard he tried.
ReplyDeleteI hope that was autobiographical. It helps put things in perspective on how far we've come in society and how much we can learn from just a few generations back. Different life, different time. But, hey, this is the guy who told us his dad used to wake up the logging camp with dynamite!
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