He picked a primrose by the way
And saved it for his love’s bouquet,
A dandelion, a clover bloom,
Petunias too and then made room
For sweetpeas from the garden wall.
An empty bottle vased them all.
His sweetheart sighed, as lovers do,
And knew his love was warm and true.
When summer sun like polished brass
Cured clover hay in scorching air,
We climbed our Early Harvest trees
For mellow apples lurking there.
Or spliced our fish poles in a plan
To knock the striped Astrakhan;
Yellow Transparent lured us too
For fruit-bait goodness overdue.
On August noons, wheat-threshing crews
Lay resting under maple shade;
We found the streaked Sheepnose ripe
And filled straw hats with every raid.
With autumn days of bronze and gold,
As cobwebs floated on the breeze
A host of old time favorites bowed
The boughs of family orchard trees.
Wolf River’s heavy, flattened fruit,
The Duchess and Bellflower’s spice,
Red Wealthy’s mealy, tempting bite
Made apple-eating paradise.
Now new kinds ship and rarely bruise
To sparkle bright on Produce Row
But lack the subtle flavor thrills
Of orchard tastes we used to know.
We left our clothes along the bar
And took a ten-foot dive,
The spring-fed depths shocked cares away
And gloriously alive.
We crawled onto the sandy bar
To watch the dragonfly
Skim down to drink, and time stood still
Though hours drifted by.
The tree-lined lane was dusty,
Old Prince was mighty slow
But who had time to notice
If he should stop or go.
Bright goldenrod was blooming
And autumn leaves were red
While soft-eyed night had scattered
Cool starlight overhead.
The plaintive sound of whippoorwills
Sighed from the shadowed hills,
And water sang a lullaby
Around the mossy mill.
With lines looped loosely to the whip
And gold moon overhead,
Oh, what a sweet communion, though
A word need not be said.
True love had time to blossom
In many gentle ways…
Young hearts enjoyed sweet quiet times
In horse-and-buggy days.
Wide fields of what are ripe again,
Broad seas of amber grain.
Green corn is done with plowing
Across the fertile plain.
Fruit bends the boughs of orchards low
And gardening is good–
Fresh turnips, beets and cabbage,
Crisp close-to-nature food.
Hens cackle in the hayloft;
Birds sing all afternoon,
And shortly after whippoorwills
Will be a golden moon.
Ideals Autumn
That winter roared in late and cold,
The phone line twisted down.
Snow covered every fence and road
And piled high all around.
We had a good-sized “tater” bin,
Some flour, meal, and grits,
With cans of lard and smokehouse meats
So we made the best of it.
No mail came in; none went out,
The phone was dead and so
We starved for news: Few folks had
“Newfangled” radios.
It seemed an age before the drifts
Packed down to hold a sleigh
And the mailman’s driving horse, shar-shod,
Came jingling out our way.
We’d scooped a path down to the box,
His eggshell sleigh turned in,
The horse was warm and blowing some-
He shouted “Hi” and grinned.
Mail-ordered packages piled high,
Seed catalogues and bills
About somebody’s auction sale
Away back in the hills.
Mom took most of the letters
And handed Pa the rest.
The seed books went to Grandpa
But, oh, the very best
That spring and summer catalogue
Square-cut and thick, it seemed,
Shall ever be the center of
A thousand winter dreams.
That sweet fresh ink aroma
Until this day prevails;
I wish I were a kid again
Waiting for the rural mail!
From the Ideals Country Treasury
I am dreaming today of the farm far away
When I was a boy and life had just begun,
How nothing could match that strawberry patch
With fruit ripe for picking out under the sun.
The pickers, all women, wore gloves without fingers,
Dark ankle-length dresses and sunbonnets, too,
And sat around chatting until warming sunshine
Had dried up most of the sparkling dew.
We youngsters made boxes from soft damp wood panels
Shipped flat, scored and measured to bend, hold and tack.
Each picker took several on flat tray with handles
And knelt on the straw with its white narrow track.
The pickers crawled out till the green patch was covered
With low-bending figures like scarecrows blown down
While berries they picked were “mosquito-bar” covered
To wait for the buggies and surries from town.
We children ate berries, our lips and tongues reddened,
With fingers as rosey as pink dawns of June.
Around us were blowing the soft winds of summer
While song birds fed young ones and sang us a tune.
Inside Mother’s kitchen the wood stove was glowing
As sugared red berries cooked, simmering low,
While fresh loaves were baking and spreading aroma
Up from the full oven directly below.
Long after the evening sun paled with its setting
The oil lamp burned on with a soft, yellow glow,
As Mom melted wax to seal the red harvest
To open when winter was swirling with snow.
Published in Neighborhood Ideals
Spading in the mellow garden,
Sunshine warmth and glow,
Bright-eyed robin searching near
The even, moist, black row.
Seed can balanced on a fence post,
Cackling hens scratch nearby,
I watch a woolly cloud patch float
In a high and deep blue sky.
Raking, smoothing, dropping kernels,
I my golden dreams have spun;
Bumper harvest, recreation –
Every precious minute fun.
Published Easter Ideals 2006
Evening katydids were rasping
Loudly in the velvet dark,
People strolling, gaily chatting,
Drifting to the city park.
There upon the grassy carpet
Folding chairs were set in rows
In the dancing light and shadows
Of maple shade, and streetlamp glow.
On the stand, musicians gathered,
Setting up a merry din.
Placing chairs, with eyes watching
For the baton to begin.
Ah, those stirring Sousa marches,
How we loved the live beat,
Swaying to their martial music,
Keeping rhythm with our feet.
Golden minutes turned to hours,
When a signal from the drum
Told us we would soon be rising
For the final act to come.
Then the sweet “Star-Spangled Banner” Brought a tightness to each throat,
Thinking of the things it stands for
And how gallantly it floats.
When the last note sank to silence
People smiled and clapped their hands…
There’s no doubt we had the finest
Of the Sunday evening bands.
Published Golden Moments Ideals 1968
Old tools are like old friends
They wear so well,
Fit comfortably around
And never tell
How much time
Passes by
Before we seek
Their always-ready help,
Day,month or week.
Old friends, like well-worn tools
On dusty shelves
Are interwoven with our lives…
Part of ourselves.
Published Easter Ideals 1973