Log Cabin Christmas 11-11-11

You ask about this picture

that hangs here on my wall?

Many thoughts come to my mind.

I can't recall them all.

It's of our old log cabin

that stood along a stream -

nestled in a heavy woods

with weather most extreme.

The summer heat, unbearable,

preceded autumn hues -

and winter brought the heavy snow

which drooped the many yews.

Our hard work filled the wood box.

Much colder times, there'd be.

I'd follow dad's familiar tracks -

to seek a Christmas tree.

A chair set by the window,

sat I, upon the chair -

peering down our old dirt road

with grandpa not yet there.

The sunrise and the sunset

was all the clock we had -

so hours I would be on watch

with brother, mom and dad.

So patiently the snowfall

would cling to window sill.

Serene and quiet were those days -

snow blanketing each hill.

Then at last his carriage came,

bouncing up the drive.

Anticipation answered,

and Christmas came alive.

The planks beneath dad's footsteps

sounded from the floor.

He gave a pat as he walked by,

then answered our front door.

The gift that I received that day

came in a homemade box.

I opened it and once again -

long underwear and socks.

Toys were quite a rarity.

I thought it not unfair -

for on those chilly winter nights,

I didn't really care.

The fire dancing in the hearth

was better than fine art -

and love was not for brand new toys -

but rather from the heart.

The inconvenient hardships

were really not so bad.

Grandpa and my family,

were really all I had.

Sunday was our day of rest

that I enjoyed the most -

when father parked our wagon near

the church's hitching post.

Patience filled our earnest souls,

charity, the mind -

and my most precious presents now,

are memories, every kind.

We bore so many crosses

with work and suffering -

but they bound us together and,

I wouldn't change a thing.

If now an opportunity

brought back 'the good old days',

I'd trade todays conveniences

for more rewarding ways.

I don't regret my childhood.

I would not trade the years.

Now please, you must forgive me for

my sentimental tears...

Oh goodness, my - how time does fly!

It's almost half-past seven!

But stories more, you'll hear some day

when we meet up in Heaven.

So that's my picture on my wall,

reminding me of Christmas -

a world of true tranquility -

where I found love for Jesus.

©2011 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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The Old Model T 8-6-10

Way back when, in nineteen twelve
a Model T was born.
It rolled past a tumble weed
and field of planted corn.

It traveled several old dirt roads.
It traveled very far.
Its horn played every gospel tune,
on strings, with its guitar.

Then one day it fell in love.
The grille turned up a grin.
It found a younger Cadillac -
her horn, a mandolin.

Each week they'd do their gospel sing,
then park in their garage.
And after 'while, five new cars -
their faithful entourage.

It beat me playing horse shoes.
Its 'ringers' made a 'cling'.
It fixed up several houses
and did most everything.

It's need, at times, an oil change,
that slowed it down a bit -
but motor strong, would always purr,
and never, ever quit.

But time did get the best of it -
I think it so unjust -
that this great antique auto
could tarnish, peel and rust.

Suspensions seemed to weaken,
It creaked some here and there.
It'd sometimes blow a gasket
and need one more repair.

Mechanics kept it going
with reasons of 'because'.
It would, at times, need greasin' -
but active, always was.

Many other newer cars
would have an 'accident'.
Disgarded, they were totalled -
and to a junkyard sent.

But this one kept on singing
through every single week -
despite some old parts missing
and battery still weak.

Then slowing to a snails crawl -
for it was not as quick -
I noticed headlights dim a bit.
To 'LOW' it moved the stick.

Oil pools were sometimes found
from places still unknown -
but not a grinding gear you'd hear,
complainings or a groan.

Upholstery did get moldy,
dried and wrinkled, thin -
but gasoline was in its tank.
Some spark was still within.

Sometimes parked in home museums,
folks would gather 'round -
to hear those old, old stories.
I'd hear horns toot the sound.

Then one day this Model T
'tween fenders, under hood -
sputtered some - its engine coughed
with filter plugged up good.

Yet many years, I know not how
it kept on coming back.
I think its little secret was
that big ol' Cadillac.

Ninety eight long years went by,
with memories by the score -
but finally that old motor quit.
It couldn't run no more.

That Cadillac was by his side
'ere since they 'tied the knot',
She never left him in the cold -
she never had forgot.

My memories fade, but never die.
This car, through visions see,
but all great stories have to end -
as with this Model T.

Gaylord K. Gander
May 1, 1912 - Aug. 6, 2010
(my father)

©2010 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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