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There really isn't that much new,
Since good old nineteen-fifty-two,
Back when I was a much younger bloke,
And it was still ok to smoke.

Way, way back before EBay
Became a homebodies cliche-
Before the dreaded minivan,
When hairspray still came in a can.

They delivered milk and eggs and more,
And they'd set it right outside your door.
Hank Williams crooned enough to show
He was no Fat's Domino.

The Postman was always on time,
Be it snow, wind, rain or shine.
Back when Coke was a soda pop,
And we still had a Whistle Stop.

Minimum Wage was less than a buck,
And we still thought horseshoes brought good luck.
Sony was the first to show
Their new transistor radio.

Mrs. Paul put fish right into sticks,
And hid well the mystery to her tricks.
And I'm sure it took some expertise
When Birdseye started freezing peas.

A gallon of gas cost me twenty cents.
That's when Elizabeth II became the Queen.
And that September found me readin'
Mr. Steinbeck's 'East of Eden'.

The Bickerson's, they were a joy.
Young Cleaver was a Mama's boy.
And Burn's and Allen, smart as wick,
Could get a laugh out of a licorice stick.

They published Anne Frank's Diary,
And opened up the first KFC.
Rocky Marciano became the Champ,
And three cents bought a first class stamp.

Sgt. Joe Friday stood so tall,
Upholding every stringent Law.
And no one would call you lame or fruity
Just for watching Howdy Doody.

And then we had the Whirleybirds,
Flying desperado skies.
And Tonto and his Ranger
Chasing down the black hatted guys.

In good ol' 1952
Polio claimed the lives of quite a few.
They debuted the famous ball point pen.
I think Truman was in Office then.

Ozzie loved his Harriet,
And Father seemed to know what's best.
And What's My Line confuzzled folks,
But I dare say it was all in jest.

I still remember that penny arcade,
Back when apple pies were still homemade.
Before microwaves and Diet Sprite,
Back where the Rockem-Sockem Robots fight.

Back when car seat belts were new,
And Mad Magazine made it's debut.
When Lawdy Miss Clawdy would crow
From almost every AM radio.

It's fair to say I've seen made through,
The good, the bad, the tried and true.
There really isn't all that much new
Since good old nineteen-fifty two.

Copyright © 2013 Richard D. Remler

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I don't come here much anymore.

Too many memories.

They say every house has a tale to tell,
Every rusted door jam a mystery.
That window over there, looking pale
And yellowed with age
And dust and yesterdays wonder, I broke
Way, way back before Grandpa had his stroke
And Grandma left her rocker for the last time.

I'd thrown a baseball right through it.
Pa was drinking then, the hard liquor,
And he whipped me raw out back behind the shed
With the full buckle. He reminded me
Windows cost money we don't have.

And Eleanor...
She was six or seven then.
She was just learning how to ride a bike,
And she was proud as can be.

She would hang out by the hollyhocks,
Pretending they were scarecrows,
Naming each one,
And telling me she'd found a pirates treasure
Buried out there near the windmill that still needed
A coat or two of fresh paint.

She was that shine in Momma's eyes,
The one person in all the world Grandma would tell
Her stories to -
Stories that would bring Eleanor
Into worlds of imagination and wonder
She'd never known before.
And Eleanor would drink it in,
All the color and fire,
That lingered in every word.

And when she wandered that late October night
Into the fields,
We searched up and down with lanterns lit and flashlights, And the neighbors helped,
And we found her come morning in the silo.
I guess she'd climbed in to explore.

You can't breathe when it hits you. It's like it
Sucks the air right out of the little space you find ,
And the weight of the grain slowly drowns out your Thoughts and your struggles, your prayers
And your cries. And nothing's left to do
But feel that terror
Of nothingness pull you away.

So many memories...

And I was angry then. Angry at Pa,
At Gren,
At God.
I blamed them for everything and then some.
I learned to smoke , and I did it well.
I learned to swear, and I was good at it.
I didn't stay home much after that.
I left, hitched a ride to New Castle Valley,
And then to Porterville.
I didn't care for schooling,
So I found a job feeding pigs.
That lead to butchering. And I was good at it.
I could lose myself in it. In the thunder of the sin,
Found some satisfaction in how they bled.

I didn't go back til after Dad died.
He'd lost everything, did a bit of drinking,
Spent his time in the county jail,
Did more drinking
When he got out.

I'd learned Grandpa died of the pneumonia,
And Grandma had a few strokes.

Nobody ever told me what happened to Momma.
She just disappeared.

...and over time I grew less angry.
And I'd talk to God at night,
Sometimes I'd talk to Eleanor, cuz I knew
She was up there with God doing angel things,
Probably riding a bicycle real good by now.
Time marched on and I made due.

But I don't come here much anymore.

This place haunts me.
The silo that claimed Eleanor now a rusted heap
Of wood and metal that watches every step I take
...and I hate it,
I'd burn it to ashes if I could.

The porch where Grandma's rocker sat
Is weather beaten and tired.

And the stump where Grandpa would sit
Trimming his fingernails with that pocket knife
Lays on its side, victim to the winds of time
And those echoes that whisper things I thought
I'd forgotten.

And I lose it for a moment
And have to mop away a few tears.
Me, a fifty-six year old blubbering fool,
Still picking at the scars.

I can hear her voice,
Her laughter,
As she circled the gravel road on her bike,
Kicking at the small stones to get the bicycle moving
Just a little faster.
And I can almost see her sweet face
And her eyes so wide
They captured the Autumn sun like a rising star.

And there's Momma, hollering "Supper's ready."

And Pa, slamming down the hood on
The truck and wiping the hot sweat from his brow
As Grandma's little rocking chair squeaked its protests
Into the wind.

And there was Grandpa,
Grinning and pocketing that knife
And kicking mud off his
Work boots and heading on in.

No, I don't come here much anymore.
This place holds far too many ghosts for my tastes.

Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler

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"You fall out of your mother's womb,
you crawl across open country under fire,
and drop into your grave."
-Quentin Crisp
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