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.
