not meant
for subtlety,
you either eat
okra
boiled or fried.
slimy or crispy.
in a gumbo or covered
in cornmeal.
the situation dictates it.
if it is pickled
it’s already dead.
***************************
NaPoWriMo 2013 Day 9
slightly late, but hopefully, I’ll catch up.
There is a crossroad there,
but you might miss it
if you drive too fast;
you won’t miss the town
because it is no longer there.
There is shady hollow a mile or so past
at the bottom of the hill.
-An easy landmark to let you know you’ve gone too far-
This countryside is hilly and forested
with Loblolly pines,
fast growing trees that reclaim ground,
and the ground is
red Yazoo clay that is always moving.
That should tell you something,
I heard tales of gambling and roughshod characters,
when this was a destination place
or on the way to somewhere.
That was before the railroad came in two towns over
and took away its “on the way to” status,
and people left.
Eventually, you had to be from there to know.
The roadsign holds the name “Greensboro”
about eight feet high,
and an old clapboard house stands
at the intersection.
It needs paint.
Behind the house
and to the right
is a well-tended cemetery
with a new tin-roof chapel. There are no ghosts.
My people tell of a confederate general buried
-in Old Greensboro-
He must have been from there.
At my parent’s house, my mother has a glass topped table in her kitchen. The table base is the wrought-iron base of an old sewing machine…it has a pedal. It is only natural to want to push the pedal and make the wheel rotate. For years, members of the family have taken turns sitting in the seat with the pedal at our feet, cranking away while we drank coffee in the mornings, ate our breakfast, held late night discussions… sowing conversation and weaving stories. Our children, from the moment they could reach the pedal from the seat, wanted to sit there and work the pedal. It was a moment we could engage them in a conversation. But more than that, it was a time to share our memories with them.
…until the axle finally broke away from the wheel. We could rest our feet there, but the pedal would not move. It was as if time conspired. Everyone was older, people were moving faster, things break down.
During one of his recent visits, my nephew attached the axle to the wheel and wrapped it with rubber bands. He is ten years old. He understands the value of memories and wanted to fix it.
We noticed it this past Thanksgiving and pedaled again with joy.
Rubber bands don’t last forever either, and they will in time dry out and become frangible. Those attachments, unless welded or firmly adhered, will become loose and broken again.
Time can take its toll on things, but memories fashioned with craftsmanship and ingenuity will last.
Our children see to that.
Taps and Ratamacues 