By Beatrice M. Hanson
I remember
Yes, I remember
Grandfather’s long red barn
That faced the mountain ranges
On the hilly-side of the farm
where acres of green pastures
And wild-flowers could be found
Rivulets from the hill tops
Joined to form a brook
That hid among the ferns and grass
On its secret Mission to the river’s edge.
I remember, as a child
I remember
The red-rooster weather-vane Mounted high
- to point directions In the sky.
"Turning to the North
Turning to the South
East or West held
he faced the side suited him
best”
I remember.
Dad milking the Jersey cows
Carrying cans of creamy milk
To the truck for delivery in town.
Sadly, I remember
The auctioneer’s droning voice
As farmers met from miles around
To bid on the equipment of Grandfather’s farm.
The apples rotting on the trees
Unsoiled machinery rusting in the damp breeze.
Finally I remember
The day we drove away
Never to see Grandpa again
For he had quietly passed away.
Yes, I remember
Grandfather’s long red barn
That faced the mountain ranges
On the hilly-side of the farm
where acres of green pastures
And wild-flowers could be found
Rivulets from the hill tops
Joined to form a brook
That hid among the ferns and grass
On its secret Mission to the river’s edge.
I remember, as a child
I remember
The red-rooster weather-vane Mounted high
- to point directions In the sky.
"Turning to the North
Turning to the South
East or West held
he faced the side suited him
best”
I remember.
Dad milking the Jersey cows
Carrying cans of creamy milk
To the truck for delivery in town.
Sadly, I remember
The auctioneer’s droning voice
As farmers met from miles around
To bid on the equipment of Grandfather’s farm.
The apples rotting on the trees
Unsoiled machinery rusting in the damp breeze.
Finally I remember
The day we drove away
Never to see Grandpa again
For he had quietly passed away.
