Best Bibbed Poems
It’s the beginning of best tinker week! Get up! Let’s go! Wake up! Come on!
The rest of the family has already gone!
I jump out of bed, excited of course, who will be the fastest? The best at the fix?
We dash up to the town square, where lies the tinker contest stage.
There are six finalists there, all snappy and sage.
Being eight, I do not understand it fully, but there’s my guy, my Uncle Moley.
Moley is wearing his usual slob outfit, bibbed overalls, and a plaid shirt that is slit.
He gives me a special look, a nod, and a wink. I love him so much, I give him a blink.
It would have been a wink if I had been good at those,
but I am not, and my uncle knows….
This year we are going to do something new, the mayor said.
There are weird boos from some, who are not right in the head.
Each tinker will fix one hundred pots and sixteen pans,
the annoying booing continues from out in the stands.
This is certainly bad sportsmanship, I whisper to my grandpa.
Curtains open to reveal the biggest pile of pots and pans I ever saw.
We stay and watch for a week and a day, some children are collected and grabbed away.
My Uncle Moley is the fastest fixer around, he wins the contest, it is announced all around.
The fastest is not always best, two meanies, Big Sully and Tom, two other tinkers grouse.
I do not care, longing for some sleep in my own nest, in my bed, which is waiting in my house.
Written 12-15-2018
Contest: Tinker, Taylor Sponsor: Julia Ward
He had on his bibbed overalls, and his red kerchief.
Finally found his worn straw hat, with great relief.
Headed out on the water with a wave and a wish.
Heard plenty of bass making a splash or a swish.
Good luck! Said his girl, who refused to go.
She could not bear water; her fear was aglow.
She thought she might drown, but she encouraged him.
He wished she would grow up and learn how to swim.
I can close my eyes, and see
Her gentle, weathered face,
Hair pulled back into a wispy bun
Grey around the temples, crinkles around the eyes
A bibbed apron, fastened with two safety pins
To the top of her dress
That apron, which throughout the day
Served as a place to dry her hands
To hold a hot pan of oatmeal cookies straight out of the oven
A hammock to carry tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden
A cloth to wipe my tears after I had skinned my knees
For Grandma, dressing up meant taking off the apron
Putting a black felt hat on the top of her head
And wearing her worn grey tweed coat
Yes then...she would be ready for church,
Knowing the lyrics to all the hymns
Without cracking open the hymnal
Poking me gently with her elbow
If I failed to bow my head in reverence
While the preacher said the prayer
Sometimes, even today,....
I still feel a gentle twinge between my ribs
Or the soft worn cloth of her apron wipe away my tears
Everyone has a childhood witch. Mine was Florence. I would run and hide when she walked past our house, stooped over, staring at the sidewalk.
Her hair was an ugly gray color, held away from her face by a man’s hat, and she looked to be at least three hundred years old.
Her face had more lines than corduroy pants and her tongue came out when she talked.
There was a gap or two in her teeth; she was a character, we were told.
A character must be someone you’re afraid of, because my blood clotted when she
Walked down my sidewalk with her goats.
Many children would run to their mama when Florence walked by, so she must have been other children’s childhood witch too.
My mama always offered to get Florence a cool drink or whatever, but she kept walking.
She would mutter all the way up the street – terrorizing us with stories about six foot snakes she had
To hoe to death in her garden.
The adults invited her to neighborhood things, but she never came.
Childhood company on the coach would stare openly if Florence walked past.
What’s that? They would ask, wondering about her layers of dresses over bibbed overalls.
Her clothes were like her hair, sticking out in all directions.
That’s Florence, she’s very nice, our mother would tell company.
We would laugh, but not loudly.
One time my sister and I were playing “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I want to be Florence, I said. We laughed until we cried. Every time we looked at each other
For the next two days, we would get the twin look, and know, and laugh again.
“You girls are awful!” our mother chided us, but I suspected by her dancing eyes that she was laughing too, only inside, and secretly.
When I reached 40, I really wanted to learn to garden. Everyone in town referred me to Florence.
From her I learned how to plant, and water, and mulch, and prune, and replant.
She was one of my best teachers.
She was my great aunt, a cousin’s friend confided to me one day not too long ago.
She was lovely, I replied.
He stared at me.
Did you ever get to know her?
Hell no, he said. I was scared to death of her.
Now isn’t that sad?
I thought it was oh so nice that Lady Florence Artifice lived in her house with goats.
She dressed in overalls of a man, with layers of bibbed overalls, dresses and coats
There was no other livestock in our neighborhood, but I thought inside was really good.
She was an oddity to others in town, but my twin and I loved it when she was around.
Her stories were terrifyingly thrilling, about hangings and people who tarred others.
We kids kept these tales to ourselves, not wanting to be censored by our mothers.
We followed her and Kneely, her head goat, up and down the block when she came by.
She would not talk to the grownups; they had no time for her; I always wondered why.
Strange, odd, weird, I heard them whisper sometimes about Lady Florence Artifice.
These small town Iowa women on my block were cliquish and clannish, and not very nice.
My mother thought it was hilarious that the kids loved this old crazy woman so much.
She allowed us leeway to run up to her garden and help her clean her rabbit hutch.
Florence knew the name of every flower, bush, vine, plant, mushroom, seed and tree.
She kept up a constant chatter that always amazed and delighted nine-year-old me.
She told us about killing cobras, rattlesnakes, lions, tigers, and one time a grizzly bear.
It was a sad day in the lives of us children when Lady Florence and Kneely were no longer there.
Nothing is more beautiful than the Tennessee Mountains in the fall.
Breathtakingly beautiful, a magical forest of golden, yellow and oranges.
Charming roadside stands, antique malls, and pumpkin farmers greet you.
Bibbed overalls are the norm, but no one holds your Nikes against you.
The friendliness of Tennessee will last in your memory banks all your life.
If your car breaks down, six people will stop, and no one will accept money.
If you need a ride, you can hop in the back of any pickup truck.
They will go out of their way to make sure you are safe, and taken care of.
A country breakfast at the diner consists of waffles, eggs, and ham.
However, if you want Big Mama’s Big Boy special you can get
Steak, eggs, bacon, grits, and three enormous pancakes.
Everything will be smothered in homemade country gravy.
People from the surrounding tables will comment on your license plates.
Hey New York! They will say, “You visitin’ relatives?”
I do not mean just one table, for you will be included by all the tables.
These folk know each other, now they want to know you.
They will give you great ideas about what to see in Nashville,
Which country artist is their favorite, which restaurants to frequent.
Dollywood? No problem. They are full of ideas about that too.
Welcome to Tennessee. We’ll keep the light on for yah!
hllbilly hoe down
hard piece of straw in each mouth
bibbed overall dance
banjos and fiddles
potluck of fancy desserts
arkansas ham hocks
hound dogs on the porch
homemade corn liquor from gramps
square dancing parents
loud bluegrass music
pink taffy pull for the kids
toothless grandmothers
She was a crazy old coot of a woman; most of us made fun of her.
Not in front of her face, we were socialized. But behind her back, watch out.
Story was that she lived with goats. She never went anywhere without one.
Her name was Florence. She wore her hair helter skelter, and men’s clothes.
Sometimes a dress over her bibbed overalls, but not often. She was a hoarder.
No one can get through her house, I was told. I was eight, and a fast believer.
We followed her down the block as she went from one house to her farm.
She told us stories about hangings and killing snakes.
She talked non-stop; as if we were not there at all. We began to adore her.
One day our mother said we were going to have a birthday party for Oney.
Oney? An older lady who lived with Florence. She was going to be eighty.
Our mother baked a cake and we marched up to Florence’s house.
We had never been inside, but I had heard about the stacks and smells.
The door was opened, and it was nothing like I had heard. It was gorgeous.
There was Victorian furniture, dainty china, pretty trinkets and knickknacks.
I never believed bad gossip about Florence again; for now I knew the truth.
She was a dainty lady who worked tirelessly, taking care of her sister Oney.
At the age of eight, I resolved to get to know people one at a time.