still standing in the field all alone

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Memories Of The Old Farmhouse
By: Rose Marie Rideout

Even back then I’d hear the squeak in the door,
Every footstep taken upon the old wooden floor.
The oil lamp hung at the the stairs for all,
In fear of steep steps that someone would fall.

The nights were cold, with a hot bottle at our feet,
One offered to everyone as they rest beneath the sheets.
Mornings all too soon would come,
You could hear mom call like the beat of a drum.

Breakfast was ready as we stand around the stove,
Getting warm with every new wood and coal load.
She was the strong one in the family,
Supplying food and making sure there was plenty.

Too often just toast, cocoa and tea,
She made sure we had our fill and never went hungry.
We would take turns to carry the water in,
How I hated those plastic containers back then.

I see her scrubbing our clothes in a tub all day,
On an old scrubbing board for that was the way.
She never complained or took a break from a chore
She greeted us with a smile after school at the door.

The old house is still standing in the field all alone,
This place to so many, once a happy, loving home.
Memories held within the walls and the floor,
A lifetime of memories, never to be anymore.

2 thoughts on “still standing in the field all alone”

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