That Old Wooden Chair

 That old wooden chair was his favorite spot to be

Sitting in the sunshine in the warmth of the day

Looking out across the land he loved so much

It stirred up memories that carried him away

He always took pride in those big cornfields

 He plowed from sun up to sun down

There’s nothing left but underbrush now

Nary a stalk of corn planted in the ground

Those fields made good corn back in the day

He hauled many a load to the gristmill

Even if it took him all day in that wagon

On an old gutted out road, most of it uphill

He always tried to share his bounty with others

Everyone wasn’t fortunate to have a good year

Even the stalks made for good fodder

That livestock sure did make it disappear

There was always plenty of planting going on

Whether it be corn or gardens growing so kind

Had to eat come summer or winter

Everything was canned, nothing was left behind

Even before the harvest had time to come in

He thought about winter and what it would bring

He had to keep the home fires burning, or else

If the weather got to bad and firewood got lean

He’d been all over those mountains and hills

Cutting and snaking out wood, it was the only way

That old mule knew how to work hard

He sure could pull that sled on any given day

One can never have enough wood to burn

In the winter when the sun sets low in the sky

Back when he was young and strong

Work was a pleasure, he could never deny

He could still hear those cherished words

Come on home now, it’s suppertime

He’d grab a dipper of cold, spring water

A sure cure for a hot thirst every time

Sitting on the porch in that old wooden chair

With his sweetheart, wife and best friend

Meant more to him than anything in the world

Oh how he yearned to do it all over again

There’s that pretty little grove of apple trees

Been there many a year, and so content

She helped to plant them, they brought a smile

Even with their trunks so bowed and bent

Her pretty flowers still bloomed in the spring

He always told her she had a green thumb

More beauty than an old man’s heart could hold

He’d soon see her, she was waiting for him to come

Awe, it sometimes brought tears knowing

Time and circumstance had left him behind

Yearning for the things he’d lost and loved

 Made him feel like he wasn’t worth a dime

He knew his life’s work was over and done

Remembering those bygone days brought a smile

They sure knew how to lift an old man’s spirits

From the warmth of that chair, if only for a while

Today the old house is so empty and quiet

 Nary a sound but the mantle clock’s tick

Plenty of reminders in every nook and crack

Over in the corner is that little walking stick

The sun still shines on that little window seat

The little birds sing but there’s no one to hear

So much nostalgia and loneliness left behind

In the heart of that old wooden chair

© Susie Swanson, 2018

Mama's Chickens

My mama loved raising chickens better than anything besides growing her flowers and always managed to have some when we were growing up. I can’t remember a time when chickens weren’t running around scratching all day or hearing the ole hens cackling when they’d laid their eggs. And there’s nothing like being chased by an ole sittin hen when she gets the mindset to be ornery when she thinks her chicks might be harmed.

When spring time came in mama kept an eye on those ole hens when they took off to build their nest. Mama knew where every nest was and if she didn’t she’d watch them till she knew just about the exact location. Daddy tickled all of us to death. He’d stand on the porch and say, “lookie yonder at your mamie, she’ll follow them ole hens till one of these days she’ll get a snake around her neck.”

There were a lot of varmints to contend with like hawks, foxes, etc. but that didn’t detour mama from doing what she loved to do. Sometimes an ole hawk would dive down and grab a baby chick.

One ole hawk really was bold one day and dived down in the middle of the yard. Mama run down those steps faster than a cat could lick and grabbed the first rock she could get her hands on and threw it straight up at that hawk. The rock didn’t come close to him but it scared him enough to drop the little chick. The poor little thing died on impact if it wasn’t already dead. It broke mama’s heart and she said, “I’ll kill that thing if it’s the last thing I do.” Daddy wanted to put his two cents in but knew better and turned around and walked back in the house. Those varmints were brave to show themselves around mama.

When an ole varmint grabbed a hen on her nest mama would take the eggs and put them under another ole hen. We never could keep up with how many ole hens and chickens mama really had but she knew each one of the hens and had most of them named and knew where each one built their nest.

When it came time for all the baby chicks to hatch out there’d be several ole hens and their baby chicks running around to feed and those hens were mean as a striped snake. We knew better to get their feathers riled. Those ole roosters were awfully cocky as well. Mama never could stand to hear an ole rooster crow in the middle of the day. She said it meant bad luck. She’d throw rocks at one to get him to stop. It was usually the young roosters that had just learned how to crow and thought they were something. Daddy told her that one day she was wasting her time and she said, “well it’s about time they learned when to crow and I’ll teach em.”

She’d put as many of the ole hens up in chicken pens as she could and the little ones would go in and out through the chicken wire till roost time. When the chicks got a little older she’d let them out of the pen to make room for more. Every now and then a fox would reach through or under the wire and get one of the hens and leave the babies to fend for themselves. Mama would catch the babies and put them in a cardboard box and feed them. She’d take them in the house at night and cover them with an old rag. They’d peep for a little bit and then get quite as a mouse till morning. When morning came she’d carry the box back out on the front porch and let them out for the day.

She did this many times and they thought of her as their mama cause every evening at about the same time they’d come up the front door steps looking for mama. Someone would holler here comes your babies mama. If she was in the house she’d come a trotting. If she was already sitting on the porch she’d stick her legs out and they’d climb up both legs and onto her lap. Sometimes they’d climb up on her shoulders. She’d say, “awe, come on and I’ll put you to bed, I know you’re ready fer it.” She’d carry each one and place them back in their box till morning. This became a daily routine for mama till they grew big enough to fend for themselves. They’d grow so big they already had their little tail feathers and they kept on prancing up those steps for mama to put to bed. It’d finally get to the point she had to run them back down the steps and I can just hear her now, “ uns go on now and find ye a place to roost, you’re plenty big enough to fend fer yourself.”

My uncle was visiting late one summer evening and was sitting on the porch talking with mama and daddy when a batch of those chicks came up those steps and walked towards mama. She straightened her legs out and they climbed up her legs as pretty as you please and onto her lap. He asked her about it and she told him they did that every evening wanting to be put to bed. He said he’d never seen anything like it before in his life. He told mama she had those chicks spoiled and she said, “spoiled or not, someone has to take care of the little fellers.”

Mama also loved to raise those pesky guineas and we all hated those things with a passion, daddy included. An ole guinea ain’t got any sense and can do the craziest things. When they sit on a nest of eggs till they hatch out they practically abandon their little ones. We’ve watched ole guinea hens stand out in the pouring down rain and look straight up and never try to hunker down so the little ones could get under them and stay dry. They’d walk around with their head in the air and let the little ones drown. The only thing they were good for was letting us know when a snake crawled through the grass. They’d all gather around it and you never heard the beat and of course the chickens had to join in as well. It’s a wonder the snake didn’t die of a heart attack on the spot.

They also loved going to the main, paved road and just stand in the middle of it. When one or two would meet their waterloo we’d shout in secret for mama’s sake. She lost quite a few in that road but always managed to triple even more so come spring.

The only thing an ole guinea is fit for is keeping bugs off of stuff. They sure did keep the bugs off of mama’s flowers. They’d even eat ole stink bugs, shewww. I do believe that’s one of the reasons mama liked to raise them. She sure prided herself on those flowers.

Mama did some funny things when it came to raising chickens and guineas. When an ole guinea was sitting on a nest of eggs mama would watch her till she left the nest for a while and then slip and take those eggs out of the nest and put them under an ole sittin hen while she was off of her nest. She’d remove all of the hen eggs except ONE and replace them with the guinea eggs. It was the funniest sight you’ve ever seen to see that ole hen walking around with a bunch of baby guineas and one little chick in the bunch.

We always said, there was never a chicken or guinea that built a nest that mama couldn’t find, even if it meant going into the snakiest places there were. Mama prided herself on her chickens and guineas. My mama was an inspiration to us all and even though we didn’t always understand her motives or love for certain things she sure did know her stuff and taught us a lot of life lessons along the way.

I love going back to our childhood home in the spring. I can still hear those ole hens cackling when they lay their eggs and see them running around with those little chicks behind them and yes, I can still hear those ole guineas as well. I can also see mama standing in the yard watching an ole hen take off towards her nest. It’s like turning back time and I’ll always cherish those sweet memories of mama and her chickens and the ole guineas too.

                                             © Susie Swanson, 2018

Plenty More Left To Tell

Seek a cool, green hilltop close to the sky

Where the refreshing winds of heaven blow

And the birds spread their wings as they pass by

Seeking some destination that they only know

Then close your eyes and listen…… You will hear

Calling, calling out your name

Old voices that you once knew so dear

Calling you back to where they laid claim

Upon the mighty land they loved so well

Across this beautiful Blue Ridge they called home

There’s so many stories they are waiting to tell

Left behind for all of us, to share and carry on

Winds of time sweep many golden memories

Paths of ancestors become streets of gold

Like the tall, tall mountains born from the trees

These are the things to cherish and lay hold

They tell their stories of hard work and sacrifice

With plenty of satisfaction, joy and pride

Knowing those big fields of corn was suffice

Putting bread on the table, knowing how to provide

Riding a wagon on an old gutted out road

If we look closely the roads are still there

Those mules worked hard and pulled many a load

Can’t ye hear the Gee’s and Haw’s still in the air

And when the noon time sun was mighty hot

They snaked out wood for the winter’s cold

Always thinking ahead and on many a trot

A way of life that should never become old

The gardens were a plenty and always bountiful

Leaving a harvest of knowledge behind

Going by the signs is a priceless jewel, so beautiful

For planting and canning from a mastermind

When the fog lays stretched across the horizon

Remember a father’s feet hit the ground at dawn

His work never done, even at setting of sun

Leaving his footsteps and pathways to travel upon

 A mother’s calloused hands scrubbing the way she knew

Washing clothes on an old rub board many a day

 Toil and labor for her family only grew and grew

  Love and dedication became her reward in every way

And they set an example of people coming together

On hog butchering days everybody was akin

Neighbors helping neighbors through all kinds of weather

When sickness hit, help was just around the bend

 There’s nothing as spiritual than an old timey meeting

Many a spirit-fed soul is now walking through eternity

 Can’t you still hear those old church bells ringing

Music to our ears, food for our soul through all adversity

 And when we drift far away and travel many miles

Let’s not forget where we came from, our ancestral plan

Our great heritage will surely bring tears and smiles

If we but only go back to where it all began

Seek a cool, green hilltop close to God’s creation

Climb on up and let’s sit a long spell

Mountain hospitality needs no invitation

Believe me, there’s plenty more stories left to tell

© Susie Swanson, 2018

A Warrior

I have fought a hundred battles

In my mind I've seen it all

I have raised my gun against the enemy

And seen my comrades die and fall

I have carried the armor of courage

Always wanting to do my part

On land, sea, jungles and deserts

It will always lay heavy on my heart

To my brothers and sisters that have fallen

I will always remember them well

So much sacrifice, they gave their all

In that place we all called hell

Inside the battles are still raging

In my mind I still see and hear

Mortals, shells and the enemy

In my sleep they still appear

Yet each day I try to carry on

Although I have cried many tears

If I had to do it over again

I would shed my coat of fears

And walk straight into battle

With my head held mighty high

For the freedom I fight hard for

I am willing to lie down and die

I will always be a Warrior

Even after I'm dead and gone

Please do not forsake me

Fly old Glory proud and strong

© Susie Swanson, 2018

May God Bless them all !!

Happy Memorial Day everyone

My Mother's Hands.

Not because of silver and gold

Not because of jeweled bands

Not just because they're soft and bold

Did I love my mother's hands

But because those hands once held me

tenderly close to her breast

and because those hands would point me

to the path she knew was best

My mother's hands so gladly labored

her hands were seldom still

never seeking her own self or favored

giving always her free will

But the thing with so much beauty

as she tended to each care

was her source of strength for duty

my mother's hands were hands of prayer

And my mother's hands would teach me

what is right and what is wrong

always willing to help me be

the person she raised to be strong

No matter how far I would travel

or how great the sights or grand

there was nothing to make me marvel

like my mother's tired hands

Praying hands can reach her children

when they've gone so far away

a mother knows that God will reach them

as she folds her hands to pray

Oh how I miss my mother's hands

as she lives with the angels today

I'd cross oceans, hills and other lands

just to see her again and hear her pray

But knowing she's in a heavenly place

where mothers are a chosen kind

her hands a flower with a flower's grace

gives me such hope and peace of mind

Till then I'll wait for that gentle touch

and listen to her prayers in the wind

in my heart I'll hold and tightly clutch

till I see my beautiful mother again

© Susie Swanson, 2018

Happy Mother's Day !!

Planting Forty Acres

Every year when spring time rolls around, my thoughts take me back to daddy and how he loved planting his gardens. When I say gardens I mean forty acres. That’s what mama used to call it. He’d start planning his planting and looking at the signs early as February. If it’d been a mild winter he’d have the taters, onion beds, cabbage, lettuce, etc. in the ground by the end of February. If it was a harsh winter and late spring he’d be chomping at the bits to get it all in the ground, especially the taters. Mama would tell him, “ye need not fret, them taters won’t come up none till the ground warms and ye know it.” And the signs had to be dark nights before he put the taters in the ground or he’d say, “they’ll be all vines and no taters.” That meant no full moon or new moon. So he’d wait it out till he got the chance at it. And he’d stay right with those gardens, nary a weed was allowed to grow.

My oldest brother helped him plow out the patches and it’d take em forever to get em plowed. Daddy had an old mule at one time but when he graduated to a tilter he didn’t know how to use it. My brother caught on and he mainly worked the tilter after that, especially after daddy started showing his age. But that didn’t stop him none. He kept on wanting those patches planted every year and the more the better. He’d plant enough to keep an army going, as mama used to say.

We all helped with the planting and harvesting. I remember many a day planting that corn and beans and anything else for that matter. I always dreaded it when it came time to gather the corn out of the field. Man, I hated getting stung by those pack saddles, it hurt so bad.

He always said there were good years and bad years for everything. For example, if the cabbage didn’t do any good he’d say it wasn’t a good year for it. That meant the weather wasn’t just right or etc. He always watched the signs and made sure it was a good time to plant anything. He was like mama when it came to her canning and pickling, especially pickling or making kraut.

When the cabbage came in and the signs were good for making kraut, that was an all day job. We chopped that cabbage with a cream can that daddy would take the top off and sharpen it really good with a file or sharpening stone. We’d pack the cabbage in jars after we chopped it fine enough and for every quart we’d add a teaspoon of pickling salt and a teaspoon of sugar. Then we’d add warm water straight from the kitchen faucet to it as we stuck a butter knife down in the middle and around the edges of the kraut till the water filled to the top of the rim. Mama always said the sugar was for keeping it white and she always wanted her kraut to stay white. When the cans were ready we’d help daddy carry them to the smokehouse cause they had to be put in a cool place to work off.

He always planted patches of early corn and beans and late corn and beans. They all kinda straggled in and we’d break and string beans in the summer till late into the night. Mama didn’t have anything but a hot water canner and having to can on a wood cook stove she’d save the hot water bath till morning.

A lot of the beans were pickled with corn and put in churn jars to work off when the signs were just right. We’d mix them all together and put em in the churn and add a cup of pickling salt for every five gallon of water. Those beans had to work off for nine days and we’d take em out and put em in a big pan on the stove and get em hot through and through and put em in the jars. Daddy and mama loved that stuff but I never did like em myself.

Daddy’s favorite corn was hickory cane and he’d plant a whole field of it so we could cut it off the cob and cream it. Daddy loved that corn with a big slice of tomato. We liked it too, but he wanted it every meal. The hickory cane corn was the best pickled with the beans also.

Sinc

e mama didn’t have a fancy corn cutter she and I used a knife. I’ve laughed so hard at her when I’d look at her glasses and how speckled they were. Of course, we were both covered in corn and the whole kitchen as well. It even got on the ceilings.

When the summer bounty started coming in it was overwhelming to say the least. There were so many things that needed canning or pickling and a lot came in when the blackberries, strawberries, etc. got ripe. I helped mama many a day stand over that wood cook stove filling cans fast as we could. The heat was suffocating but as mama used to say, “it’ll beat a snowball any day.” Of course this would be after we’d hit the blackberry patch at daybreak. There’d sit the buckets of blackberries to put up as well. She’d can a lot of them to make cobblers but she liked to have a few cans on hand just to drink when someone got the sick stomach. They sure do settle the stomach and I know firsthand.

After we got a deep freezer the rest of the berries would be put in the freezer till time for jelly and jam making. Mama liked to wait and make it in late summer or fall. She always said it would thicken better when the humidity wasn’t so high. She never had any trouble with it thickening anytime best I remember.

All that good bounty sure did taste good come cold weather and like mama said it sure did beat a snowball. I look around today and see so many patches empty compared to back then and it makes me sad. A lot of folks still plant gardens and we try to put a little one out but as for forty acres it’s hard to find them anymore.

I bet daddy and all of his old buddies are planting forty acres in heaven again this spring and enjoying every minute of it.

                                               © Susie Swanson, 2018