Grandmother’s Stories



Thinking back to something my grandmother said,
Years and years and years ago, I wish I could remember
Her words better and see her face as clearly as I did
When we sat on her porch shelling peas and talking,
Talking, talking about what happened that afternoon,
And last week and when she was a girl at home
With Mama and Papa and Brother.

They are names to me and faces in faded pictures,
But from her I know that Mama was an educated lady,
And Papa made whiskey in a still in the woods
(Which was a secret from all the neighbors, except a few),
And Brother, who wanted to fight for the South,
But was too young, ran away and fought anyhow,
But was too young, ran away and fought anyhow,
Though Papa tried to stop him.  He returned,
But was not the same precious boy who’s slipped away
On a moonless night, unseen by all, except Grandmother.

Now, at a distance of years from Grandmother’s porch,
The sound of her voice has faded from my memory.
Though I listen closely what that inner ear for some
Cadence of voice that was hers, I hear is rarely.
Her stories, though remain, of family passed now
To whatever other place there is, remembered only
By words carved on stones in a grassy field,
And by me.

Juanita Holliman, Everton’s Genealogical Helper, July-August 2001, page 26.

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