I recall times of my life a long time ago,
We tend to do this more as we grow old.
That wonderful old house on that red dirt farm
Where many of my kin and daddy was born.
Grandmas', as we kids used to call it,
The rocking chair where grandpa would sit.
Those tall cottonwoods always come to mind,
Standing like giants, all in a line,
The old granary that served for so many years'
Its' gray boards forgotten like yesterdays' tears.
The rolling hills, the criss crossing creek,
Watching grandpa with his mules, Jack and Pete.
Homemade ice cream with aunt Selmas' cake,
Watermelon on the lawn...the memories we make.
Christmas was always special there on the farm
It sort of had that Norman Rockwell charm,
A cedar tree cut from out of the pasture
With its' special aroma and Christmas stature,
The big pot belly stove, hot to almost glowing,
Kinfolks gathered round, telling all their knowing.
These are but a few memories I recall,
Back on the farm with grandma and grandpa.
The old dinner bell
sits silent now on it’s hook
Calls to meals no more
My Grandmothers bell
Rang every night for supper
We came running
Sunday always fried chicken
Wednesday was a large pot roast
Friday pork chops
I lived for those days
My three most favorite meals
Ran fast on those days
Wash your hands and face
Sit down so that we can say grace
Pass the potatoes
Those days stay with me
I sometimes ring the old bell
Just because I can
Just as a boy grows into teenager
he is bound to one day grow into man
I think it's when he is just five years old
He becomes a demolition fan
At that juncture it's all about the tools
To dismantle what works perfectly well
They may be begin plastic at the start
But it triggers something in their cells
A teenager will start with something small
A lawnmower, dirt bike, then on to cars
Then as he ages and gain life experience
The quest for tools is written in the stars
It starts with a simple set of wrenches
Then moves on to socket sets and ratchet
Not just ASE, they need metric as well
A tool store is a veritable banquet
Metal worker, wood crafter, mechanic
Plumber a welder and electrician
Wrapped up in a testosterone package
Needing a new tool for the next mission
Watch as his eye light, when reaching for a tool
That's new to the market sitting on display
It's no longer about simple fun in an old cardboard box
It will be tools from now till his dying day
They call him crazy. I prefer Sir. If you look at him wrong his blood starts to stir.
He doesn't like chocolate, children or pets. I don't think he likes anyone he's ever met.
He yells at the postman, insults crosswalk guards.
Why he's so darn mean he even hollars at cars.
They say he eats wood in the morning and buckshot for lunch,
but I know for a fact he likes a little less crunch.
If I were a gambler with a few extra bills
I would bet my last dollar that he's just lonely as hell.
No woman in years has graced the sheets of his bed.
Most sadly admit they would rather be dead.
An old empty house where there is no love
with it's paint worn and weathered with help from above.
His car is antique in every sence of the word.
Adequately refered to as "That Old Rolling Turd"
Yeah that crazy ole bastard, at least a brick shy
with no problem at all spitting in the Popes eye,
but you have to love him or at least not make him mad.
Cause' that crazy old man is my doggone Dad.
The Applethoughtrotten
Family
The albums of pictures are dusty
I take them all down one by one
Even the pages are musty
And the ink on the paper has run.
Carefully I look at the strangers
Here is a history of me
I tried to imagine the dangers
And hardships they all had to see.
Some stood in a group, some were sitting
It seemed that they each had their place
I guess that they thought it not fitting
To have a smile on anyone’s face.
There were beards and scuffed old work boots
Some ribbons and lace for the girls
An old bowler hat and hair oiled to the roots
Some with bonnets perched atop curls.
As I looked at each generation closely
They started to look all the same
And under each picture, well mostly
Was written in ink, just a name.
The words written there on those pages
Have blurred with the passage of time
But the name has passed down through the ages
Because; it’s the same one as mine.
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