My grandmother grew up on a
farm–one of twelve children–
a school teacher of twelve grades
in one room. As a student herself
she studied math hard… because it was hard…
so they told her.
Many years later, she worked at H & R Block
filing income taxes for others–way into
her seventies–because she mastered math.
Grandma didn’t bake cookies or make
fruitcake. She read the paper and
spoke intelligently on the government
and current events.
I never met her first husband, my
grandfather, Frederick, from Germany,
but he was a butcher and wrote
poetry. I never read his verse, but his words are on my lips.
Somehow I feel connected to both of
them, especially when the day is finished
and the house dark and still with the moon
shining above and the sound of the
sea in my ears… drawing an
ancient melody from my heart.
I taste the salt of yesterday and allow the
generations to wash over my soul. I hear a mandolin
and long to dance. There’s an old stucco house by the cold sea,
and a light within calls me home to the warm fire inside.
~original by me 23, 2008
One Comment Add yours
Thank you for writing about my Mom. That was very sweet. My Mother didn’t keep his poetry love notes to her because her younger sisters made fun of them. She tore them all up.
But she did save a very sweet letter my Father had written to her when I was very small. It made me cry.
Love you, Mom