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Winter on the Old Homestead
Three kids to a bed, two beds to a room, three
rooms crowded with flannel long johns and wool
socks. If I was lucky enough maybe they had only
been worn by two or three brothers before me.
No holes was never a guarantee.
Mama had us tucked in tight under hand stitched
quilts made from squares of worn-out clothes that
was deemed no good for anything else. So heavy
that it was impossible to sleep on my back.
Or it would make my toes hurt all night.
Morning would come whenever nature demanded. As
soon as it was light enough to see the bowl of ice
capped water, I could splash a few drops on my face.
On some of those more courageous mornings,
a few of the more important parts.
The sides of the pot-bellied stove could turn as
red as the devil’s hood if the stoker was too generous
with the logs, or go out altogether if it was neglected
for too long. Deep scratches gouged into the floor from
constantly shifting chairs.
A good autumn from the garden, creek banks, and the
woods beyond provided enough to ease the
grumbling of winter stomachs. The occupants of
the chicken coop did their job diligently. As did
the former occupants of the pig pen and the pasture.
By January deep paths cut through waist high snow
to the outhouse, smokehouse, chicken coop
and wood pile. Only three more months until the
grass can be seen again.
Copyright ©
Jerry Brotherton
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