Shall I tell you of a quiet, rainy day
when memories came to call?

As the thunder rolled and rattled about

flowing smoothly, slowly, I recall;
 

Great Grandma with her withered hands,

brought her quilting and knitting too.

I, again, a girl of fourteen years

learning the skill of the handcrafts she knew.
 

Papa with his witty jokes 

and old fashioned country yarns,

hog killing, hootin nannies,  and, oh yes,

raising old wooden, red painted barns.
 

One memory I found, so sweet, so dear,

when I was only but barely ten.

My brother, who was older, just a bit,

broke the rule and let women in.
 

The fort was of blankets, a brothers’ club;

I shouted for mom to take my side.

Big brother didn’t wait, just said come on in,

to this day, he’s the one to whom I confide.
 

The rain was steady and slow all day,

in my lap my book laid largely unread.

I roused only when I became aware

it was time to bake old Granny’s bread.
 

The old, stained family recipe 

handed down and spotted with age,

always used to sustain our folks

is now a curled and crumpled page.
 

Damp air hangs heavy with reveries past

they try to recapture my mind.

But, I must live out my own days too and

leave memories for the future to find.