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Boyhood memories of long
ago
Drift back, as if a mist.
When smog, computers and
Video games just did not exist.
On Granddad's farm, we knew a joy
One scarcely finds today.
Unaware back then, just what we had,
Long ago and far away.
Big brother Bill, ol' Spot and I
Would head out for the creek;
Our fun, back then, was chasing squirrels
Or a game o' Hide n' Seek.
A refuge for the critters here,
The creek brought life to all;
The cattle, pigs, a thirsty pup,
And the horses in the stall.
It fed the well on Granddad's farm;
It made Granny a wonderful cook.
She stirred-in love that filled our hearts
With nary a recipe book.
The days were short, the summers long,
That toughened feet and skin.
Our bodies burned in the broiling sun;
We wished it would never end.
Granddad's farm was Disneyland
To Bill and me and Spot.
We waded the creek and ran the field
And slid in the old cow lot.
Those two great Belgians, Jack n' Dan,
Helped Granddad's labor and toil.
Without a tractor, it was the only way
To turn and till the soil.
We had a crystal radio,
And could hear the old time shows.
But power was yet to come this far,
So we read by the oil lamp's glow.
In wintertime, the iron coal stove
Brightened up the gloom.
We chilled and shivered in our beds,
For it heated but one room.
Granny's quilts covered Bill and I ,
And sometimes Uncle Gene.
But the bed would really warm up fast,
When Spot jumped in between.
Barefoot boys love the summer heat
And winter's worst of all,
With midnight trips to the ol' two-holer
When snow begins to fall.
Snow is nice at Christmas time
When it's only five below,
But when that snowman starts to melt,
We were glad to see him go.
The garden smell of Granny's flowers
Filled the Springtime air.
Boys an' dogs knew once again
It'd be summer without a care.
For Spring and Summer can't be far
And our heads filled with the dream
Of wheat an' cotton an' green, lush fields
And the bubbling, rushing stream.
To Granddad n' Granny the farm was work;
As young'uns, we tried to help.
Restricted by age and size, were we
And still considered 'whelps'.
We did our best, with little chores
Getting eggs in Granddad's pail.
Or sitting it under the milking spouts,
While avoiding the swishing tail.
Granddad could milk a bucket full
Or squirt a cat in the eye.
His hand was quick, his aim was true;
We would laugh until we'd cry.
The Birds would sing their hearts out
Celebrating the spirit of spring;
With starry nights and Lightnin' bugs
And silouettes on the wing.
I remember those days as a magic time,
A time of unbridled joy,
As
wonderous thoughts fill
heart and mind;
These memories of a country boy.
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