Mom

áás>-" % MOM " ? whistling girl and a crowing hen Will always come to some bad end!' " She smothered my songs. Then I'd mind my manners And wait for her gift of a piece of dough To shape anyway I pleased— The only beaten biscuit in the batch She baked every morning. "I'll get you to set the plates, And mind that best one; It was Dad's." Corsetted and aproned, She presided Over country sausage and fried apples, Sifting cinnamon on a day Not yet light. Luring me lay her cupboard. I'd slip and crack the door, Gazing at her buttermilk pitcher Until its blue and white speckles Spun like polka-dotted swiss on a bolt. "Meddlesome Matty 'one grievous fault possessed Which like a cloud before the skies Hid all her better qualities.' " " 'Idle hands be the Devil's workshop!' " I've tried to figure out How she made lye soap from bacon fat To float like store bought Ivory, 14 And the way she canned that crunchy kraut, Packing the cabbage in Mason jars, Baptizing it in brine, From a recipe unwritten. She was the last of a line of daughters Taught to ride a horse and shoot a gun As well or better than any man. "Set those cans there on the fence. I'll pay you a penny each one I miss." At dusk I flinched at the streak of fire Each time she aimed her arm and shot. I never earned a cent. Come Spring, she took the house apart, Scrubbing every cranny. I fanned the organdy on the stretchers For her fear a bird might rest. " 'Harder by far to have nothing to do.' The windowlights evaporated With her ammonia based solution That still stings my hands. "When I'm gone, you take your pretties Before the others come and meddle:" The wooden spoon that stirred the breads And Grandpa's special china plate, Her cast iron skillet and rolling pin And the Bible where she wrote my name The day that I was hers— And the buttermilk pitcher. — Jane Brock Woodall 15 ...