| Author | Message | ||
| native dancer
Advanced Member Username: nativedancer Post Number: 266 Registered: 12-2004 |
They were like my grandmother's probably, my mama's mama, Dora, whose third husband had fought in the War Between the States, a man we boys knew only from his uniformed likeness in a misty daguerreotype hanging over the old pump organ in the living room that one of grandma's stepsons had added on by enclosing the front porch. Nobody ever saw grandma play the organ but she made lots of pies with her crooked fingers wrapped around the ends of the rolling pin while she flattened out the dough and there was hardly a day she didn't have four or five soggy pies in the warmer over the stove, terrible pies, really, pies that got made to use up the peaches and apples, that she baked out of habit whether anybody came to visit or not, a farm woman who never took up knitting or quilting or any of those other woman's tricks, with hands that had milked cows and wrung the heads off chickens and gathered persimmons up in her apron and held on to the bucking plowhandles behind her mules, hands, that if she came across a copperhead in the garden would grab hold of her hoe and chop its head off, not out of meanness or hate but because if one was to bite you the only place to get help was forty miles away, clear on over in Salisbury, either that, or you could die like grandpa did not from the artillery at Chickamauga but from a copperhead at threshing time, in sight of his own house, hands clenching and unclenching while he tried to say some final word, hands, that when grandma laid hers on top of them in the coffin, mama said, you would have thought they were twins (Message edited by nativedancer on December 05, 2005) | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Senior Member Username: garyb Post Number: 5744 Registered: 07-2001 |
but she made lots of pies with her crooked fingers wrapped around the ends of the rolling pin while she flattened out the dough and there was hardly a day she didn't have four or five soggy pies in the warmer over the stove, terrible pies, really, pies that got made to use up the peaches and apples, that she baked out of habit Jim, great end, but I love the pies. Another fine work. Smiles. Gary The Eye of the Coming Storm http://www.mindfirerenew.com/ | ||
| Karen L Monahan
Valued Member Username: klhmonahan Post Number: 206 Registered: 08-2004 |
Yes, very lovely! (((smile))) Karen | ||
| Zephyr
Senior Member Username: zephyr Post Number: 3355 Registered: 07-2003 |
A touching poem Jim, as always you manage to reach the tender places.  | ||
| Star
New member Username: star Post Number: 30 Registered: 11-2005 |
a tender but unsentimental story, beautifully crafted with some great detail and a rounded ending. well done! Star | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 2268 Registered: 08-2003 |
The image of the hands...lasting. Grandmother iconic. E | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 3566 Registered: 07-2002 |
Ahhhh, vintage "Jim". Lull the reader with the meandering story, then strike--just like that copperhead. Well done. best, ljc http://ljcbluemuse.blogspot.com/ | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 6030 Registered: 11-1998 |
I never see your endings coming, j, until those final lines. All through the beginnings of your poems, I'm always wondering just where I will be taken. I always feel such empathy for your characters. This is no exception. I love Grandma for her strength -- I always wanted to be a woman just like her. | ||
| native dancer
Advanced Member Username: nativedancer Post Number: 267 Registered: 12-2004 |
thanks, everyone. forgive my tardiness, but i've been down body and mind w/an attack of gout. bbs ... jim |
