It’s All Relatives

Two of my relatives.
Gramma and Grampa Stringam

I love to hear the stories of my relatives who went before,

Great Grandfather, whose neighbour’s hammer helped to build a second floor,

Then, when he went to lunch, was buried somewhere neath those planks of yore,

Discovered when that place was razed at the ripe old age of 54!

For a visit, Grandma took four kids and she was heading home,

Was quite a distance train and wagon, that those five would have to roam,

When partway there, their not-so-trusty beasts belied their chromosomes,

And backed the wagon off the cliff at the apex of the mountain’s dome.

When Grampa found some steer’s legs hidden far beneath the large hay pile,

He knew a poacher had been there. He brought police ‘cross country miles,

A young dad charged, his starving kin had nowhere they could stay a while,

Gramp took them home and had them stay till Dad’s return brought back their smiles.

1918, the world was in the grip it called, “The Spanish Flu”

But Grampa’s family lived on onions—seemed to make them all immune,

For several weeks, he did the chores of those in Stirling’s small commune,

Milking cows and feeding stock from rise of sun to rise of moon.

Gramma, she was famous for the cookies baked at Christmastime,

Selections packed in tins, but there was one we all found so sublime,

Those were the first that disappeared. Be it snacks or mealtimes.

When she passed, she took the method with her. It was such a crime.

My mom was famous for the scrumptious pies that she would always bake,

In groups of six, they left her oven, for her fam-i-ly’s intake,

Now, once a year, on March 14, we think of Mom as time, we take,

Constructing crusts and fillings for our flaky Pi Night bellyache.

When I and Future Husby went for what would be a date, our first,

My Daddy locked the door on me, I tell you, it was just the worst,

We broke in through a window and I breached the hallowed halls headfirst,

And Dad forever teased about our ‘break-and-enter’. May he be cursed.

Each one of them has stories and I’m fortunate I have their store,

And as I read them, I’m excited. Truly, how could one be bored?

And they must be remembered, so I vow to never close that door

On those wondrous thrilling tales of relatives who went before.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts

Perhaps a grin?

So all of us, together, we,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Jenny

Charlotte

Mimi

Merry Mae

Next week, cause it’s my favourite, true,

We’ll talk about the colour: BLUE!