I was born in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains
of North Carolina. That is where I remember being free
to just be a kid. My grandparents were very good to us
and taught us what it meant to be loved unconditionally.
I only have one living grandmother left, but the memories
that I have of the others, will keep their spirits alive
in my heart always.
I dedicate this page to my maternal and paternal grandparents
with love and gratitude for the memories.
Zack’s Fork Creek
She was an unpretentious creek
yet overflowed with life
and the ability to inspire
undying visions of hope.
Somewhere within time’s
shades of grey
I still feel her magic
deep inside my bones
her melody resonates
in every raindrop,
enticing, crying,
calling me
to my Carolina dream…
Longing
I grieve for old things
almost forgotten,
bits and pieces
of gentler days,
days unhurried
by obligations
and design.
I hunt for lost memories
as details fade
into a foggy fantasy
filled with simple truths.
Because somewhere back there
innocence lies in wait
of unthinkable dangers…
Perspective
You see a run down shack,
abandoned and unsightly.
I see a childhood memory,
a place once filled with security.
You see rotted timbers
and broken glass.
I see Grandpa’s hands
making dreams come to pass.
You see untamed roses
falling over crumbling stone.
I see a beautiful garden
and Granny’s sun-washed face,
and a place that a little girl
never wanted to leave…
Grandma's Kitchen
Though the years went by too fast, memories still remain
of a warm room in the past where I often go again.
Dim echoes in my head sound like Grandma’s sink,
where a black pump on the shelf dripped, and dripped, “kerplink!”
A woodstove in the corner smelled of fresh baked berry pie,
and heated water in tin tub then helped us to get dry.
Flowers on gingham table smelled delicate and gay,
and Grandma always thanked the Lord
for sending them her way.
Just outside her window, grapevines twisted ‘round,
and mountain bluebirds sang a song
which was a glorious sound!
I hear Grandma singing hymns on bright or rainy days,
or teaching us a special poem or trick, or game to play.
Nights, she’d tuck us in our bed, listen to our prayer.
She’d hug us tight, kiss our heads and tiptoe to her chair.
She’d sit and rock, knit or read, then off to bed she’d be.
We lay beneath her handmade quilts
and whispered quietly.
These thoughts are such a treasured joy
and I know they’ll always be,
for Grandma’s house is in my heart,
not just in memory.
My Granny
Granny was so beautiful as a young girl but when I look
into her eyes I wonder if she too, kept secrets. The sadness
in her face seems so familiar.
I was told that her father once beat my father so bad
with a horse whip, that granny had to use butter to peel
the shirt off his back. It was also rumored that he sexually
abused my father. I have always had a gut feeling that he also
sexually abused her.
Granny raised 14 children, dipped snuff, and put the fear
of God in anyone who dared harm her "youngins." She "whipped
the fire out of" her grandchildren, with a hickory switch,
including me. Her form of dicipline would be considered child abuse
by today's standards, yet she always, always loved us. I guess because
home was by far, worse, I loved spending the summers with Granny.
No matter what secrets she and I kept from eachother, Granny and I
had a special bond. Her memory will always be one of a tough yet gentle,
courageous, loving and caring grandmother.
Life Lines
When I look at Grandma’s face
there’s a great deal I can see.
Every furrow shows a trace
of her family’s history.
There’s a line for every struggle,
every victory she’s won.
There are tender lines for daughters
and generous ones for sons.
Beneath her eyes, lines of sorrow
show how many tears she’s cried,
yet around her mouth as many
show her laughter and her pride.
Grandma’s face is full of charm
and for every line I see
a gentle spirit revealed
in her love for family.
Grandma's Hands
Grandma’s hands reach out to hold
and always wipe our tears away
and though her hands are worn and old
they always take the time to pray.
Grandma’s hands have done God’s will
faithfully offering charity,
always busy, never still
and always there to comfort me.
Grandma’s hands have touched my face
and left their trace upon my soul,
sewn a quilt, crocheted some lace,
never asking any toll.
Grandma’s hands have done so much,
always patient, always fair
with such a gentle, loving touch,
hands that calm, and heal and care.
No other hands can take the place
of hands so full of love and grace.
Grandma’s hands will always be
alive within my memory.
Grandma’s Legacy
Grandmother's aching hips still carry her
up same steps climbed as a child.
She has seen nine decades, tells me life goes
by without warning, has changed too much.
She speaks of simple pleasures long past;
"In Papa's general store
wooden tubs of flour, apples, rice, beans
lined the front of the counter.
Friday night was pay day
and sometimes Papa
brought home root beer,
butterscotch and cinnamon
sticks and "Long Tom" chewing gum
in a brown bag."
She recalls Grandpa's baskets
made from oak splints,
Grandma's from willow limbs,
and how they filled them
with homemade biscuits, ham
sweet potatoes and fried pies,
to carry proudly to the one room schoolhouse.
Tears fill her eyes as she lovingly recounts
the lonesome sound of her Papa
playing fiddle after she'd gone to bed
and how she cried herself to sleep.
She says she was in the third grade
before she saw electric lights
or ate her first banana.
She remembers Sunday School lessons;
"Honor Thy Father and Mother,"
"Children obey your parents,"
and that razor straps and leather belts
were never used for punishment.
Grandma tells me she still
has much she'd like to do
but so little time
left to do it in…
Anything Antique
I’m fascinated by antiques, things of yesterday.
I search in shops of every kind, near and far away.
I gaze into the windows at the priceless treasures there,
a china doll, a wagon, a cuddly teddy bear,
gently worn old toys that some child loved and kept
beside them in the dark of night to comfort as they slept.
There’s a trunk from someone’s attic,
where family heirlooms lay,
awaiting someone special to find them there someday.
There’s a hat box and a pair of gloves, a satin wedding gown,
high button shoes, a cameo, a quilt that’s filled with down,
an album filled with photographs, history in black and white,
a bible with it’s pages worn from reading every night.
There’s a china plate and tea cup that must have held a brew
flavored with some secrets from at least a friend or two.
There’s an old oak kitchen cupboard filled with granite ware,
and salt and pepper shakers, at least a dozen pair.
There’s an old wooden rocker where someone use to dream,
or piece a quilt together and sew each perfect seam.
I love to window shop and stop to take a peek
of treasures, old and rare, of anything antique!
