Читать книгу Woodsmoke - Wayne Caldwell - Страница 10

My father built this stout old place in 1914.

We lived in a tarpaper shack while he worked

On it. Moving day was like coming to a castle.

I was eight. I’m comfortable here yet.

Next move? Carry me out in a casket.

Papa was a scrounger — windows came from

A church they razed down at Luther, and its front step

Became the granite mantel over our fireplace.

Always was a comfortable house,

It sighs and creaks like it has opinions.

Me and Birdie remodeled in the fifties, put in

Pine paneling, central heat I’m too tight to use,

A new bathroom. Only thing I regret is covering

White clapboard with green asbestos shingles.

Birdie wanted it to look modern. I’d take em off,

But asbestos lung ain’t a thing I’d care to die of.

I love watching Birdie’s flowers bloom,

Tulips and yellowbells, japonica and lilacs,

Clematis and iris, snowballs and peony roses.

I keep ’em up because of her, and, besides,

I’d almost as soon raise tulips as taters.

You can’t eat flowers, but they sure dress up a table.

The masterest thing about this fine old place?

From the front porch you spy Mount Pisgah,

And don’t see a neighbor in any direction.

Knock on wood, Lord willing, it’ll stay that way.