New York, USA
The homestead was an old farmhouse,
Perched atop a place called "Oak Hill"
Surrounded by barns and fields of crops,
Plows and tractors, that never were still.
There was nothing better than going inside
To find Gram baking one of her pies,
I can picture her still, rolling out crusts,
With that twinkle in her bright eyes.
Gramp was always busy outside,
Seems something always had to be done,
Like clearing more of the "stumpy lot"
Or making the old Farmall run.
Evenings we'd sit on the old front porch
Watch the sun set over the lake,
The cows all milked, we'd bed them down,
Then we'd all eat what Gram had baked.
From dawn to dusk, each day they worked,
Gram cooking, Gramp out on the land,
Oh to ride on his knee just once more,
Or just hold that rugged old hand;
To go back for one day to my childhood,
Just to spend one more day in that place,
Just one special day to talk with that man,
Just one chance to again see his face.
How I'd love another piece of Gram's pie,
Or have her just hug away my fears,
The warm memories of the old homestead
Will stay with me througout the years.
[This message has been edited by BSC (edited 06-04-2000).]