“Rural Free Delivery (RFD)
Home, upon that word drops the sunshine of beauty and the shadow of tender sorrows, the reflection of ten thousand voices and fond memories.
This is a mighty fine old world after all
if you make yourself think so. Look happy even if things are going against you— that will make others happy. Pretty soon all will be smiling and then there is no telling what can’t be done.
Coca-Cola Girl
Mother baked a fortune cake
pale yellow icing, lemon drops round rim, hidden within treasures,
a ring—you’ll be married,
a button—stay a bachelor,
a thimble—always a spinster,
and a penny—you’re rich.
Gee, but I am hungry. Wait a second, dear, until I pull my belt up another notch. There that’s better.
So, you see, Hon, I am straighter than a string around a bundle.
You ought to see my eye, it’s a peach. I am proud of it, looks like I’ve been kicked by a mule. You know, dear, that they can kick hard enough to knock all the soda out of a biscuit without breaking the crust
Hogging Catfish
This gives you a fighting chance. Noodle your right hand into their gills, hold on tight while you grunt him out of the water. This can be a real dogfight. Old river cat wants to go down deep,
make you bottom feed.
Like I said, boys, when you
tell a whopper, say it like you believe it.
Saturday Ritual
My Granddad was a cobbler.
We each owned two pairs of shoes, Sunday shoes and everyday shoes. When our Sunday shoes got worn they became our everyday shoes.
Main Street Saturday Night
We each were given a dime on Saturday
opening a universe of possibilities.
All the stores stayed open and people
flocked into town. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds
set up a popcorn stand on Reinheimer’s
corner and soon after lighting a little stove, sounding like small firecrackers, popping began.
Dad, laughing
shooting the breeze with a group of farmers,
drinking Coca Cola, finding out if any sheds
needed to be built or barns repaired, discussing the price of next year’s seed, finding out
who’s really working, who’s just looking busy.
There is no object I wouldn’t give to relive my childhood growing up in Delavan— where everyone knew everyone—
and joy came with but a dime.
Market Day
Jim Pittsford’s grocery
smelled of bananas ripening
and the coffee he ground by hand,
wonderful smoked ham and bacon fresh sliced. He’d reward the child
who came to pick up the purchase,
with a large dill pickle
Biking home, skillfully balancing Jim Pittsford’s bacon, J B’s tomatoes and peaches, while sniffing a tantalizing spice rising from fresh warm rolls,
I nibbled my pickle reward.”
―
James Lowell Hall
