Memories of Home

The Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 22:08:00 +0000

The leaves in the old tree blow gently in the breeze,
As the clouds roam overhead and shadow us below,
The limbs bend gracefully as the hot sun peaks through,
The old tree has many stories to tell as its age begins to show.

A young boy runs and gallops as he sees the swing sway,
The grey squirrels hear him coming and wave their tails in style,
Birds flutter through the mighty limbs as they escape,
But the boy gives little attention as he runs with a smile.

The tree doesn’t mind the weight of the boy as he flies through the air,
He has seen many years of children enjoying the shade for play,
And then as the years went by the old tree saw each child as they grew,
Only to return home with books for study as under the tree they lay.

Time has taken its toll on the tree as the limbs and trunk show age,
The old tree doesn’t realize a difference inside was well under way,
For a tree’s heart doesn’t lie in the center but rather in the shell,
So it cannot know when things are changing at the end of the day.

Then one day he felt it, a limb was too heavy to stay in place,
This has not happened before. Only wind could do such a thing.
It was frightening for the old tree to feel that change was about to come,
He couldn’t bear the thought of not being there to hold the rope swing.

But time changes everything and life proceeds without slowing,
The day for the tree’s journey was just beyond the setting sun,
He had enough time to bid farewell to the squirrels and friends,
But not seeing the children made him feel more work needed done.

Today a huge and mighty stump marks the place where the tree stood,
It is a memorial to the animals and children who sought sanctuary there,
If you sit and listen the stump has a story to tell for each visitor,
So sit a moment, hear the story, remember the tree and the love it did bare.

Jack

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Sat, 27 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

A proud Southern sharecropper raised on the land,
A Southern Democrat who took his own stand.

Married his sweetheart, then settled on a farm,
Five children to raise and keep from life's harm.

He worked out of town for many a' day,
The mortgage for the farm took all his pay.

Each child took their turn in the daily work,
Caring for the animals, turning the dirt.

Bushells of cotton they each must pick,
Nothing for play but a rock or a stick.

Milking the cow and baking cornbread,
The chores must be done before going to bed.

When the work was all done towards the evening of life,
He looked all around and saw pay for his strife.

Five children were raised and now they're all gone,
Grandchildren to raise in a life of their own.

Proud of what they had done, for they did their best,
He now could sit back and take a long rest.

Snake

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Sat, 20 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

It was Saturday morning,
The sun ready to rise,
Dad and I were hunting,
Scanning the trees with our eyes.

The Squirrels were all jumping,
To get their morning meal,
And the light was just perfect,
Dad had spied one to kill.

Well I tried to sit quietly,
Then I looked at my boots,
There I saw a small quiver,
I saw it in the roots.

A small brown snake,
Laying pretty as can be,
His head was striking,
His tongue stuck out at me.

I said "Dad, a snake!
Please chase it away,"
Dad said "Hush son,"
I see a squirrel in the light of the day.

I yelled "Dad a rattle snake,"
Is biting at me,"
"Son, I have told you,
It's a squirrel that I see."

Finally tired of my crying,
Dad looked at my shoe,
He pulled me back and yelled,
"That thing's striking at you."

"It's no rattle snake,"
Dad said, "But you're right,
It's a baby copperhead,
And that thing does bite."

Dad reach for a stick,
And struck the snake's head,
Then we lifted the snake,
Sure 'nough, it was dead.

Well from then on hunting,
Dad told me what he'd do,
"If you see something wrong,
Tell me and I'll listen to you."

Coon Hunt

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Sat, 20 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

Well Tuffy is ready,
And we can't leave too soon.
We round the dogs up,
In the light of the moon.

Across the road,
Through Mr. Harris's field,
Go by Mr. Thompson's house,
To find tonight's kill.

The dogs are all barking,
Their tails start to wag,
Tuffy tells us their ready,
Then he starts to brag.

"My dog's are the best,
They only hunt coon,
You'll see no possums or deer,
By the light of the moon."

As we get near the river,
Tuffy lets the dogs go,
Three dogs are a' yelping,
A familiar yelp we all know.

"Yes, It's a big coon,"
Tuffy said with a smile,
Then we begin to follow the dogs,
It seemed like a mile.

"Those dogs are still running,
No coon runs likes this,"
Dad says to Tuffy,
"The dogs are amiss."

"Those dogs are too smart,
To be caught by a trick,"
He hollered to Dad,
"Watch out for that stick."

Well the banks of the river,
Were high and real steep,
A barge shined his light on us,
Just to get a peep.

The dogs chase continued
Down the hill to the creek,
Then we heard a familiar sound,
A strong bark that is not meek.

"Well the dogs finally treed him,"
Tuffy said with a smile,
We were all very breathless,
As we ran the last mile.

We came to Malone Creek,
crossed on a downed tree,
The dogs were still barking,
"Shine the light so we see."

And there they were,
Gathered around a small tree,
We shined the light up it,
You won't believe what we see,

Sitting out on a limb,
Hissing, smiling real stout,
Lay a big old possum,
Tuffy began to pout.

"Let's climb and go get him,"
Tuffy said with anger,
Dad said "Watch that old possum,
Watch out for danger."

Well the possum got angry,
When Tuffy poked him with a stick,
Out came the possum,
On Tuffy's head that was slick,

Down the tree came Tuffy,
With the possum on top,
Up jumped the dogs,
And Tuffy yelled "Stop!"

Well Tuffy grabbed a long switch,
From a tree on the bank,
And he got the dogs' leashes,
Giving each a big yank.

Well the long walk back,
Made each of us moan,
But the dogs had it rougher,
On that climb back home.

Knat Smoke

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Fri, 19 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

The long day is over and the work is all done,
We sit to watch the setting sun.

Out to the smokehouse to get an old shirt,
Find an old can and pour out the dirt.

The children all gather to anticipate fun,
While Grandmother's work has just begun.

She grabs a match from one of the men,
Holds out the shirt so the fire can begin.

Quickly the fire consumes the old cloth,
While flying away we see a large moth.

Grandmother stuffs the old shirt in the can,
And a bellow of smoke around us began,

To choke off the insects, so away they flew,
And if you got in the smoke it would choke you too.

It's placed in the yard, in front of everyone,
So our evening activities have officially begun.

The plume of smoke would follow each kid as they ran
In circles of fun around the old can.

The adults all sat and talked of the day,
While Granddaddy chased the dogs and cat away.

When bedtime came near and they told the last joke,
Fresh water from the spring would end the smoke.

Yes, it's offical, the evening has come to an end,
Now the knats may return and take over again.

Mud Hole

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Fri, 19 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

Saturday has come,
its the end of the week,
We gather at Grandaddy's,
its fun that we seek.

Uncle Garvin is there,
Uncle Buford comes too,
They brought there best vehicles,
We've some mud riding to do.

Grandaddy is laughing,
He knows there will be fun,
Cause the boys are ready to go,
On another wild mud run.

Garvin's choice is the jeep,
It's from the army's best,
He cranks the old engine,
It rumbles, ready for the test.

Uncle Buford is no bragger,
But he,s proud of his choice,
The speed of his old Bug,
Now roars its shrill voice.

To the Miller Ridge boys,
Choose your ride and let's go,
The week's rain has been good,
The mud's ready to flow.

As they turn the corner,
Eyes wide at the sight,
It's the biggest mud hole,
The mud is just right.

"The jeep will bog down,
It cannot push through,"
Uncle Buford yells to Garvin,
And he winks at him too.

"You better hope that bug's tight,
You better pray that it floats,"
Uncle Garvin yells to Buford,
"You'll wish it was a boat."

Well the engines are roaring,
The gears start to clash,
Garvin's jeep is the first one
to enter the muddy stash.

He chugs through the water,
Pushing mud with a slurp,
I heard the jeep whine,
I thought I heard it burp.

The old jeep took the right lane,
And along it did creep,
Then it stopped with a thump,
The hole was too deep.

Uncle Buford laughed,
Yelled "get out of the way.
The left side is mine,
Looks like I win today.

Well he backed up the Bug,
And pushed the gas to the floor,
He quickly gained speed,
The mud was flying to the top of his door.

But the bug came to a stop,
The other side was too steep,
I guess the old mud hole,
For the bug was too deep.

Well there we all sat,
In our seats in a slump,
When someone yelled listen,
And we heard a "thump, thump."

From out of the trees,
Came the noise and "Hello!"
Well look, it's Uncle Henry,
Two mules with a chain in tow.

"Let's get the boys home,
We can't settle it today,
You boys hook 'em up,
You all know the way."

RC Cola Clock

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Thu, 18 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

Sunday has come, we each rise at dawn,
Smell the summer breeze and the fresh cut lawn.

We each comb our hair and put on our best,
Maybe a new suit with even a vest.

Daddy cranks the engine as we climb in the car,
To Grandmother's church, it isn't very far.

The windows are raised as the preaching begins,
We hear about Jesus and think about our sins.

The heat of the day into the room will creep,
but Momma's soft fanning will put me to sleep.

As we hear about the Bible and the Solid Rock,
I look to the wall for that faithful RC Cola Clock.

It's five after twelve, and next look it is ten,
I listen intently, "Just as I Am" would soon begin.

The preaching is finished, the singing all done,
But now Granddaddy's prayer has just begun.

Bless Momma, Bless Pappa, Forgive each their sin,
I stare at the clock waiting for "amen."

Today the old church stands, yet I am all grown,
I go back home and look, the clock is now gone.

The memories are with me, and comfort they bring,
The hot summer days and cool breezes of spring.

Wild Fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Tue, 16 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

Remember the wild plums that grew by the road?
Remember riding home with our bucket load?
The taste, the smell, watching for bees?
The wild apricots that grew in the trees?

We rode our bikes to find the treasure,
Riding, picking, eating, such a pleasure,
Easy to find all over the place,
Spitting the seeds, juice on your face.

Where did they go? Why did they leave?
Childhood pleasures, for which we now grieve,
It is those pleasant memories of yesteryear,
Only the memories now bring us cheer.

Seasons of Spring and Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Daily) — Tue, 16 Apr 2002 00:00:00 +0000

Spring's pastel colors are here,
Letting us know life renews again,
Winter's grey seems to disapear,
Now breezes cause smiles to begin.

Pleasures of summer soon to be found,
Sunshine, water, trees, and fun
The possibilities cannot be bound,
Running, playing, life in the sun.

Now lose that dispair,
And start with a smile,
Drop all your cares,
And run for a while.