THE SUMMER OF 1949

The summer of 1949
was the best
of my boyhood.

Grandpa held me
securely as we
rode the mowing
machine behind a
black workhorse
named Topsy.

In Grandma's
garden I reveled
at the sight of
a garter snake,
at the new smell
of coal oil.

While Grandpa worked
in the fields
I moved the wooden
lever in the milk house,
starting the windmill.
As I watched the water
flow down the trough,
Grandpa entered the
milk house, saying
"I saw the windmill turning."
He shut it off,
and wasn't angry.

I saw June bugs and
fireflies for the first
time, and we lit
fireworks on the
fourth of July,
endangering a cornfield.

Near the end of the
summer, Grandpa
made me a kite
from sticks and brown
paper. It was too
heavy, but would fly
when I ran.
Knowing we were
soon to be leaving,
I put it into the
silo, where it would
be safe, and never
saw it again.
I'm sure
that he did.

I wanted a broken,
antique padlock,
that said "Great Northern
Railway" on it.
I hesitantly asked
Grandpa about it,
now that harvesting
was done.
He gave it to me,
saying "When you
want something,
you have to
ask for it."

Grandpa, if I weren´t
too old to work it,
I'd want that farm
of yours now,
and the long-vanished
country
that went with it.

4 March 2015, revised 18 December 2016