Arkansas, I Remember

Sitting on front porches, old folks I remember, in the shade filtered Arkansas heat, spitting snuff into mason jars, remembering to us the things that happened, when they lived in that faraway land called “a while ago” On dusty golden summer Sunday afternoons, Chicken dinners I remember: After service, at Harmony Baptist Church, seven miles outside town, snuggled in the trees; graveyard on the far side, baptismal on the near. I remember creaking porch swings in the cool of the evening, after the sun slipped down into twilight like a red-hot nickel dropped into the piggy bank of time. During daylight savings time, vacation time, July lessons I learned. By country cousins taught – how to drive a team of mules, the urge of "getup mule" and the easy pull of "whoa". And the secret words, in mule talk, that more than reins coaxed the shuffling beasts to left or right. The city boy drove a wagon and team, all the way to the saw mill. Then Billy Bob would say "Good job", and drive the rig back home. I am a branch, waving my leaves, in a forest of asphalt and steel. But, the roots reach deep, down in Sparkman town. I remember: who I am, where I come from, who my people are- Papa Ed and Uncle Joseph; Mama Ginny and old Paw Paw Grown urban smooth and city cool, I remember still- both my gee and haw.