I grew up in a log cabin that my father built, and my grandmother lived in a little house halfway down the long gravel road between my cabin and the county road. Every day after school the bus would drop me off and I would stop at my grandmother’s house and say “I’m starving.” She would feed me a fried apple pie or some other treat she’d made, and I would find out what she was making for dinner. Then I would go home and say to my mother, “I’m starving,” and see what I could get from her. Whoever had the best dinner plan was where I would make my evening’s reservations.
I’ve just published two poems in Prairie Wolf Press Review about that time. It was glorious. Tell me what you think.
There was a hog farm just down the road from us that was glorious in a different way. I suppose one makes one’s fun with what is at hand. The Gospel Chicken House is a real place.
I’m curious what others remember from those days. Did you have one of those elastic book bands? I’m sure they must be forbidden now.
Just when I think I’m getting to know you, you surprise me again.
Those are my roots, for better or worse. I think it’s interesting how people start in one place and grow to end up in another. I don’t think that’s uncommon at all. But sometimes surprising, yes!
Have you read any books by Robert Morgan? He is a poet who also writes about farm life in the Appalachians. I am currently reading “Gap Creek,” which takes place right before WWII.
I do know about Robert Morgan. That southern voice is beautiful and powerful and real to me. I must confess that his poem about the rattlesnakes is the one that stays with me most! ‘Mountain Bride’ I think it is.