::

The Way I Remember It

I almost missed the narrow lane;

 overgrown with Queen Anne’s Lace ,

 saw grass and untended Forsythia bushes.

 Driving slowly,

 the black Wagoneer wallowed through the deep ruts ,

over small bushes and branches which lay in its path.

 On either side, 

instead of the tight, neat fences

 I remembered so well,

 I saw only wildly growing brush,

 an occasional glance of a rotting , leaning fence post. 

I couldn’t  see the neat pastures

 where the beautiful Herefords once grazed,

 their white faces unbelievably clean,

 their tails swinging gently to keep the flies from biting,

 or hear an occasional soft low 

when a small calf strayed too far from it’s Mother. 

There, finally, is what is left of “Home”. 

The huge ornate gate, hanging now by one rusty hinge.

The beautiful white picket fence,

 rotted and laying on the ground, 

just pieces here and there, not one picket intact. 

The house, 

no longer white, 

but a dingy, rotting , gray shadow of itself. 

The porch posts rotted, 

letting the roof lean helter-skelter as it will. 

I remember snow white sheets 

blowing in a gentle breeze,

 drying, then put back on the bed at night.

 OH! the fresh clean smell, not from fabric softner,

 or detergent, just clean fresh air.

I look where the garden was always planted, 

remember the big red, juicy tomatoes, the yellow squash,

 the bell peppers, the corn, the green beans.

 All the food right there, fresh, ripe ,

 ready to enjoy with never a thought of :

Is it good for us?

 Is it high in cholesterol? 

What’s the fiber content?

 And never in this life is there a better aroma 

than that of fresh baked bread or pies,

 straight from the oven.

 Now, if by chance you, a stranger find this lane

 and dare drive down it,

 you will see only a falling down house 

and Abandoned farm. 

You won’t think of the children 

who were born In this once majestic home. 

The loved ones who died here. 

You won’t remember the cattle, 

The horses, the chickens,

 the flower or vegetable gardens. 

You won’t hear the lonesome cry of a night hawk,

 “Whip-Poor-Will” as they call to each other. 

Or the eerie hoot of the owl 

as he sits waiting for an unlucky field mouse

 or other small prey. 

But, my friend, I see these things, 

I hear them, smell them and taste them.

 For to me, this is Memory Lane, 

Back to my roots, my life as a child and young adult.

 The roots from whence I came,

 And the base from which I grew,

 and became what I am today.

 You wouldn't even notice the small cemetery,

 the marble headstones with red roses blooming around them.

 But I do, for there,

 beneath Mother Earth's soft green carpet, 

lay my loved ones.

 Resting now,

 after a life time of hard, back breaking 

yet satisfying work. 

Work that not only fed their families 

and put money in their pocket, 

but work that fed many families 

and made their lives better. 

From here I learned that for everything, 

there truly is a season.

 I learned to respect nature, 

to respect animals. but most of all, 

to respect those who loved me and in turn,

 show my love for them. 

I learned by experience,

 by watching the seasons of earth, and of life, 

that there is truly a Deity in His Heaven, 

that He cares for those of us

 who are willing to do the best we can

 to make our lives

 and the lives of those around 

us a happier place.  

copyright@Aradia 6/00

 



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