Hello friends!

Recently I’ve been writing some down memories of farm life from my growing-up years – there are so many good stories to preserve! I wanted to share a few of those poems with you today.

Since many of the experiences in these sketches happened within the history of this blog, I dug through the archives and chose some (very old) photos to re-edit for the post. If you’ve been following for long enough, you may recognize some of the pictures or experiences in the poems.

Enjoy a trip back to my childhood. 🙂

(By the way, some of these photos are actually quite good for my younger self but the resolution is terrible. I made them pretty small so you can still enjoy their contents.)

Roofs

Back in my shorter days,

I craved heights.

I climbed bark ladders, sure,

hidden in leaf-green tents of foliage,

but there were also roofs.

The flat one outside my bedroom window

was good for a picnic, our hot dogs

held high over the waving corn.

The thrill was best

clambering over cows:

a metal roof slanted for sliding

and then level for standing,

walking softly not to scare

the gentle giants of the dairy below.

Once, with friends,

we held hands and leaped.

I snapped a picture.

There was no ground,

just a black ridge below

and puffed clouds behind,

punched through with angled silhouettes

flying free.

In a moment it was over;

our feet touched down

on silver-blue metal

with gold-blue sky above.

But solid as the roof held,

the soaring feeling

of grass so far away

kept us light up there,

small farmhand moonwalkers

among the flutter

of stars and pigeons.

Harvest Shores

When fall crisped each day’s edges

like the browning leaves,

when summer vacations faded

and beaches vanished into

sunset-tinged memories,

we still walked yellow dunes.

Grains of corn poured into trucks

in golden streams.

sometimes my father let us ride the load,

perched atop a rich mountain

of hard, cool kernels.

We would play free until

the harvester rumbled near

over shorn dry stalks

and bid us scrunch to one corner.

We felt a crashing power

as waves of corn sprayed into

the bed of the old White

several yards away.

Dust boiled like sea foam,

glittering in autumn’s auburn rays.

The sound of falling grain

striking and sliding

against heaps of silent kin

roared like rattled thunder.

Were we frightened?

Only a little.

Small faces peered over the edge

and waved at the harvester’s cab.

That red wheeled dragon spewing harvest,

we knew with assurance,

was moved by our father’s hands.

Field Lunches

I felt sorry for normal people, sometimes,

with their proper park picnics.

Nothing could compare

to the sturdy field lunches

we packed on harvest days.

In the kitchen one sister helped Mom

slather mayonnaise on soft sliced bread

with a little yellow mustard

smoothed in for flavor.

Thin ham and cheese next,

perhaps crisp rings of white onion,

ruby garden tomatoes,

or pale iceberg lettuce.

Another of us filled plastic bags

with potato chips in favored flavors:

barbecue, sour cream and onion,

jalapeño for the boys.

A handful of apple wedges or carrot sticks

(for balance),

and the most important part:

two soft-baked cookies

or a few pieces of holiday chocolate.

My favorite job was

writing out the names with a marker

on each brown paper bag.

We packed it all into a laundry basket

with thermoses full of tea and water,

grabbed the dependable, worn cow blanket,

and piled into the car.

Sometimes we bumped along

Over ribbed corn stalks for minutes

before the tractors ended a row and slowed.

Spreading our quilt under a mulberry tree

we divided the spoils at the edge of the field,

starting with my sweaty father and brothers.

Contented munching joined summer air

muggy with chopped silage and hot birdsong.

To normal people,

I was sure,

A sandwich could never

Taste so good.

The Island

We called it “the island,”

though the only water

pooled sticky green in rubber cradles

of abandoned tractor tires.

When you entered the shade

of that lone clump of trees

gathered in the middle of a wide field,

you entered a land of imagination.

Heaps of soggy carpet rolls,

metal shelving, toothed gears,  dented signs…

All this trash was treasure

to the owners of the tidy shoppes

beneath the cedar boughs.

On that cool, dry soil

we spread our wares and specialties—

the flat wedge of a pelvic bone

from the local cow graveyard.

Handcrafted gardens

of weeds and lichen

stuffed carefully into

broken glass bottles.

Chain links and “sea glass” shards,

hollow pipes and plastic containers.

We bought and traded,

cousins and siblings and occasionally

honored, initiated friends.

But mostly we foraged:

deep in the tall grass,

by the towering shelf filled with poles,

or far on the edge where the lilacs grew,

we wandered with eyes

that knew no refuse.

That place is deserted now,

taken in by birds and deer.

I imagine things still go on

mostly the same

under the cedar trees.

Green moss fogging up

old beer bottles

with imprisoned growth,

pale cow bones

sun bleaching in a line

like clothes spread out to dry.

Death and life

going on as they always did,

but shaped and moved by

children’s hands.

I hope you enjoyed reading through those fond memories. I love that I have some old posts on this blog mentioning these very activities. I’ve been blogging for almost ten years now – how crazy is that??

Which poem was your favorite? One of your favorite childhood memories?

Thanks so much for reading, my friends, and have a lovely day!

***Allison***

P. S. If you’d like to read more of my poetry, check out my books here.