Every year around this time I call the farm.
I listen to the muted ring of the rotary phone, and wait.
Mom says, “Hello?” Her voice, careful at first, then,
“Oh Stephen, I was just thinking of you.”
The low January sun is bouncing off the drifts into the kitchen.
Sunny Boy cereal is bubbling on the enamel hot plate.
Dad has stepped out of the porch into the snow
and is using the steel grain shovel to clear a path to the tractor shed.
The line crackles and mom says, “Will you be coming home
in the spring?”
The drifts are high from last night’s wind.
But now there’s a vast great plains calm.
It’s cold and there’s a reverence of hoarfrost on the grey poles,
and the drooping lines, and the green glass insulators;
and chimes of snow crystals hang in the blue refulgent air.
With braille eyes I reach through the receiver to touch
mom’s face. Her eyes are lakes of kindness. And I say,
“Seeding time — I’ll try to be home by then.”
Now the voice goes quiet and I listen to the hum of the line,
which really isn’t there — nor the telephone,
no longer the house, or the shed, or the prairie farm.
How much you loved her. We can feel it.
That’s true. Thank you Ann.
And the memories remain..
Before I got to the end of your poem I began to reflect on my grandparent’s island and how only the memory of them and what the island once was remain.
Thank you for evoking that reflection of a bygone time.
You’re welcome Kirk, thanks for adding your own memories.
On behalf of all the children of farm mothers, thankyou Steve. Our moms always wanted us to come home at Christmas. Warm remembrances.
Thanks so much Beth!
It was a joy to go there with you…then I picked up my phone to text my boys.
Love that. Thanks Kellie!
Oh how beautiful and poignant!
My grandmother lived on a very simple farm at the end of dirt road, formerly land leased from the copper mines. There were apple trees, an outhouse and sauna, a woodstove for heat and cooking, and only 1 cold water tap. I have such incredible memories of times spent there with cousins and other family members, many who have sadly either passed on or live in a parallel universe to me in terms of their political views. (I often wonder how we can be from the same gene pool.)
But just today, as I was shoveling our first real snow in 2 years, I was reminded of my grandma snowshoeing to the outhouse, baking ridiculously wonderful pies, chopping wood, and living this hardscrabble life, largely on her own, for many decades. She lived in an area where 300+ inches of snow per winter was common. At that moment, I resolved to think twice before complaining about anything in my life.
Ha! Yes, I don’t miss those frozen snow banks. Thank you for these wonderful memories, and adding to the story.
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Stephen, what a poignant tribute to your mom. A reminder for us all… thank you for your writing… (the previous comment I posted was a simple heart emoji but came out as two question marks). Best to you in the new year!
Thank you so much for this, Doug. (Yeah, I can’t figure out why that emoji morphs into a question mark. Sorry about that.)
(Insert heart emoji here!)
Thanks, Steve, such a beautiful tribute to our mom. Your words made her vivid in my mind! And while she and all else you describe are no longer there, she is re-membered. (Re-member is a narrative therapy term for people whom we have enlisted in our club of life. They live in our minds and hearts).
I followed the feeling I had, still have, for Mom, and the words came. Thank you Sam.
To Sam – I love the concept of “re-membering” people.