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I was reminded of my grandparents’ farm this morning, and I’ve been feeling quite nostalgic.  So much so that I started to write a post about it.  And for some reason the only words I could think of were words I’d already written many years ago.  I figured I would just put them here and let that be it.


I remember every summer
down on my grandpa’s farm.
Finding fun to fill our days
wasn’t very hard.
Learning to drive that old red truck
when we were just kids
Filling jars with lightning bugs
and poking holes in the lids
Walking on the rocks ’round that big oak tree
Going to town to buy ice cream
Cutting pictures out of magazines

I remember every morning
eating biscuits, bacon and eggs.
Grandma would sneak back to our rooms
and make up all the beds.
We’d take a walk across the fields
and drink from the natural spring.
On the way back we’d stop for awhile
to play on the tire swing.
Sliding down the hay bales in the barn
Playing in the dirt with matchbox cars
Watermelon feasts out in the yard

I remember eating cornbread
and shelling purple hull peas.
We’d shuck corn and we’d snap beans
and put them in the big deep freeze.
Going with grandpa to see the pigs
and give them something to eat.
We rode on the tailgate of the truck
and let the grass tickle our feet.
Drawing pictures on butcher paper
Then hanging them on the refrigerator
Oh the games that we would play there

We would make pea-shooters out of sticks and rubber bands
Drive the tractor in the fields to give grandpa a hand
Going to pick blackberries
and ending up with poison ivy
Watching Andy Griffith on tv

Playing Dukes of Hazzard in the truck
Roscoe was always out of luck
’cause we were never giving up

Eating lots of chocolate pie
Papa played his fiddle most every night
We were tired and we’d sleep tight


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