Posted in Gratitude, journaling, memoir

Rainy Day Memories

Grampa Lamming with my name copy

 

In the basement darkroom I tapped the paper gently in the tray

stirring the strong liquids.

I’d learned to wait for the image.

Within seconds it floats up into my vision, excitedly I proceed,

so I may hang the pictures of my work to dry on the line

and later, to study.

The flaws and white spots don’t make sense at all

but I save the photographs anyway.

Thirty years later I recognize the circles as orbs,

and not mistakes at all.

Sparkling spirits, guiding lights, and angels of mercy

accompanied my quiet grandfather throughout his days.

He was a man who looked out the window often

checking the skies for signs of Spring.

He lived within a sixty mile radius his whole life, from farm into town, from carriages to Model T’s, always Fords, for he labored on Henry Ford’s farm.

He was sure of the perfect time to plant, locating the seeds in their practical places.

When we were little

his hands felt like the warmest mittens of cinnamon and apple tobacco,

tiny hints of the grandmother I’d never known,

I longed to see her eyes.

I wanted to find out who she was, a seamstress named  Esther.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author:

I made it this far and plan to keep going. I believe nature heals the soul. I love to journal, to write, do art, and music. I'm not afraid to tackle tough subjects. Solar-powered & drive hybrid. Trying to do my part. Earned my BA at 53. And, I believe, it's never too late to have a happy childhood.

7 thoughts on “Rainy Day Memories

    1. Thank you Viva. He was such a powerful person in my life. He only went to school through the eighth grade, then worked the farms, and instead of retiring worked as a custodian at a small town high school.

  1. A country girl missing the simplicity of home after 40 plus years, I saw your granddad perfectly! You are a wonderful poet/writer, Susan. Thanks for liking my post.

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