sure Lloyd works to hard
you think he’d give up the farm,
it bein’ only him and his wife.
he makes plenty up at the school
with the janitor work.
made sense to have the farm
when the kids were home.
when all nine of ‘em pulled up a chair,
they went through a lot of food.
those kids worked for their keep, too.
could be colder than billy hell
and they’d be doin’ somethin’ around the place.
when Lloyd took in the two Schneider boys,
I thought he’d have himself a mess of trouble.
danged if they didn’t work hard as his own.
kids all growed up, got good jobs,
and you can bet your next paycheck
they’re good workers, too.
most of ‘em got families now.
wife of one of the boys ran off
and left him with five little ones.
Lloyd’s always sendin’ him boxes of food.
Lloyd lost a little of his spit
when his youngest got killed in an accident.
he was just like Lloyd, hard as nails.
seen his wife when they was out for fish.
she’s really havin’ trouble gettin’ around,
all gnarled up by arthritis.
she worked as hard as Lloyd at one time.
wasn’t nothin’ for her to put up 700 jars.
now, don’t look like she can do much of anything.
but ol’ Lloyd . . .
I could hear the te-poc-a-ta, te-poc-a-ta
of his old tractor late last night
so I know he was working a field.
he just don’t stop.
This poem could be about my parents–except for the arthritis. But I think we all have some form of “arthritis,” something that hampers us, slows us down purposefully. It’s my experience that farmers–people who work the land–often have a reserve of purpose inside them. It’s quiet. It’s deep. And it’s not connected to their ego.
Mary Anne
Thanks for the reaction to the poem. Quite honestly, your thoughts on the subject are very poetic, nicely stated. You have done some writing on your years on the farm, correct?
Dave