It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.

Why, that building knew your folks, children,
watched generations come thru the door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.

It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)

And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.

Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)

A great way to end the week!

The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day, this appeared on the door:

"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri

copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015

My father, for 20 years, was a game warden for the State of Texas. I  would often ride with him on weekends throughout his 6 county district, stopping at many of these small, rural, unincorporated communities. It was, as we say, "a real hoot!"

When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.

The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.

Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.

The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.

Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.

So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?

Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.

Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.

In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.

Had they known the kind of man he was,
While he was retching
Into the oxygen mask,
EMTs might not have been surprised,
But they were,
When he tried to clean himself,
There in the life flight bay
As the rotors beat their way.

Stubborn to the nth degree,
Prouder man I never knew,
Fastidious in most his ways,
Embarrassed that a stranger
Should clean up his mess.

"I'll take care of it, Art,"
The flight nurse said,
"It happens all the time!"
He kindly lied,
And cleaned the old man's face,
And fit another mask,
And dialed the oxygen to full.

What he thought then, I cannot tell;
I hope he dreamt of going home,
Or heading to the barn another time,
Of being strong and well,
Or McKellar singing Handel's masterpiece;
I hope he felt a little wave of peace
Before he left his body, tough and old,
Before his mind felt coming cold,
I hope his final breath was a sigh
Of going down to sleep,
Of going down to gentle sleep.

Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok* !

His tanned, stocky fingers cupped a rose,
turning it toward the camera,
and I clicked the shutter.
He hoped only that the rose
should somehow be preserved.
I cared mostly that I might keep
the image of his strong, gentle hand.
Every day, except Sunday,
he gripped hammer and plane and saw and sander,
but here in the back yard,
before the day was gone,
he held a flower,
just so,
to catch the sun's rays,
as if to grant extended light
to this one bit of life,
and to me.

And I, sixty summers later,
repeat his act, feeling
so much less manly
--my own hand being mostly unfamiliar
with the grip of tools or boards.
Still, since comparisons will be made,
when it comes to hopes and cares
as to what gets preserved of light or life,
it seems that little changes.

Your sons are suffering now
for what you did then
didn't have to pretend
that you had it all figured out
or that you figured how
to love the gift he gave
They are punishing us
Do you remember being forgiven
for taken for granted all you were given
that grudge you hold hangs low
over our souls
hard to be whole
when one half
struggles, striving to achieve what you never had
open your fists and hold you sons
reveal your empty hands
tell stories, honest ones
you didn't know
and your life formed from breath he spoke
you didn't realize
and you were the first lives
help our hearts carry the burden
loving away from God has us hurting
one another, one after the other
Adam
what did you say to Eve?
is the fact of who's fault it was what you truly believe?
did you have to labor for her love?
was it simple
was it verbal
was it instrumental
was it poetry
I know it was biblical
religiously you lead
the race in who we strive to be
seen
as
impossible
Adam if nothing else
See the light in your sons lives
See you
& be brave enough this time
to at least save yourself

Me and Mary Lou
Were married right out high school
Her soon to have a baby
Me with nothing much to do

Didn't get much of an education
From the high school social scene
Life is now one big social frustration
If you know what I mean

Got a job on the dead shift
Down at the Jiffy mart
When Mary Lou went to labor
Emptying out her shopping cart

Got the call at 2am
Telling me I had a boy
I went straight to isle 3
And bought him his first of many broken toys

Cause broken toys prepare us
For the book of broken dreams
That most of us later in life
Tend to sit and read

Got the call not that much later
Telling me Mary Lou had died
Pretty shortly after that
My boy let out his first of many cry's

I wish I could have been there
Though not much I could have done
Except to give last minute comfort
To the mother of my son

Still down at the Jiffy mart
Whats a man to do
With a now 2 year old by your side
Sitting on a stool

He loves to hear the stories
Of when his mom and I were young
But he always adds the saddest end
When he asks why she is gone

I tell him she's still living
Only now she's in our hearts
I'm not sure that he believes me
As that's when the tear drops start

But life goes on as always
Like the purchases that I ring
With both us boys missing Mary Lou
If you know what I mean

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a *****.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.

Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.

I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.

Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.

The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.

How can I rip poetry from my soul for you?
You are part of me and so is your poetry , rooted deep within my being
I cannot put that emotion into words
The best that I can do is tear out a raw, quivering, ****** lump of feeling
You are my rock, my strength, my laugh, my goodness, my caring,
All of the good things that I am
You are my love, immovable, everlasting
You are my security and protection
The roughness of you in my memory,the scent in my nostrils,
Your face always before my eyes
You are my father, even though you are not
You loved me
Even though you didn't have to
You are gone and God, the price I would pay
For one laugh or smile
One word of good cheer or uplifting
One story
Or one joke.
I love you

Let me tell you about old Stanley.

He delivered papers six days a week, then on Sundays his round was even longer. At one time he used to work nights as well, as a night watchman up at the TV mast. Getting paid to sleep!

Stanley grew up in the economically depressed 1930's, which I guess explains a lot.

I did a job for him once, and he settled up from a plastic bag of £1 coins he had been hiding under some old sacks in his shed.

He kept a tidy veggie garden, but was reluctant to spend any money on the house. The outside was shabby and the inside was spartan in the extreme.

Everyone liked Stanley though. He was always cheerful with a ready smile and wave. As the years passed I noticed with some sadness that he was struggling with a limp. Eventually of course, he went the way of all flesh.

Now the veggie garden is overgrown. The house is under offer. His boy has bought himself a big new 4x4 and is planning to build a house in Thailand with his new partner.

Well someone had to spend it...