I don't get around here very often... In fact, it's probably been years since a posted any of my poetry. I don't know... I guess I'm my own worst critic, so I usually keep my writings to myself.
With the weather getting better, I took to the garage to try and sort the past winter's accumulation of items... While sorting and cleaning, I decided to hang my lanterns from the upstairs floor joists in order to get them out of the way. One lantern holds particular value for me... I sat and looked at it for a bit, and then hung it on it hook. For some reason I thought about it the rest of the day. So that night, two nights ago, the words just seemed to flow easily in my mind. I put them down. Please be kind...
*****
Grandpa’s Lantern
Among others it hangs in my garage…
Waiting for the time
That I will light it once again,
For me to use its shine.
It once was a real workhorse,
At the old home place.
It made trips down to the spring for water.
It shown welcome light upon a face.
Its light was but a dim, golden glow,
But grandpa didn’t care.
He would don his coat and light the lantern,
It lit his way - everywhere.
Sometimes I take the lantern down
And light it just for fun.
It’s much aged and dimmer now,
But still the most valued one.
He’s been gone now all these years,
But I know some will understand…
When I hold my Grandpa’s lantern,
I’m holding Grandpa’s hand.
*****
So there it is... I inherited the lantern at age 14, some 32 years ago. I always admired my grandfather, whose self reliance was something on the level of amazing. He told me once that he wasn't aware that the country was in "a depression" until someone brought him a 6 month old newspaper. But that is the way it was in the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina. This man, a carpenter by trade (that never owned a power tool in his life), supported a wife and 7 daughters with his hands, an 8th grade education, and a knowledge only gained through life lessons. A veteran of the Argonne Forest battles of W.W.I, he had seen the worst of that which man is capable, and it gave him a zest for life that is rarely seen in those that have not faced death on a daily basis, with the expectation that they probably wouldn't get to go home alive. He could build a house from the stone foundation to the peak of the roof, and the fine quality of workmanship is not to be found today. Even as he lay in the hospital on that cold October morning, the victim of a stroke that would take him from us just two days later, he pointed out the fact that the room was out of square - a fact that I verified for him using a double folded piece of paper (to get a perfect 90 degree angle.)
As these times have gotten harder, I look back now on the skills he taught me... Felling trees, making them into lumber, making wood shingles from red oak trees, carpentry, gardening, hunting, butchering fresh meat, making lye for soap... Appreciating what you have... The enjoyment of sitting in the dark on a front porch swing on a breezy summer night, and recognizing the smell of the rain that was headed our way. The peaceful, rhythmic sounds of trees frogs and "katy-dids", and the seemingly infinite little lights of the lightening bugs. This was my summer, growing up... Oh to be able to repeat those days. But we all know how that goes... So I hold the lantern.
Regards,
Raven6
