Grandmama

My daddy talked about her.
He said she was a saint.
My little grandmama I never knew.
She lived to eighty-seven
With never a complaint,
That any of her dreams had not come true.

She lived alone in tiny house
On widow's meager pension;
Through Grandpa, veteran of the Civil War.
If not sufficient for her needs,
I never heard a mention.
She was I'm told, too proud to ask for more.

Indiana to Dakota
Must have seemed a dreadful ways;
In those old times, a long, long trip by train.
She saw her son just two more times
In those hard scrabble days
Though I know how hard he tried to go again.

She knew us by our pictures
And there were few of those,
I know she must have longed to see us all.
Our daddy often told us
We'll see how the wheat field grows.
If good crop we'll go see Grandma in the fall.

But the good crops didn't happen
And she died in twenty-eight.
My grandma is a picture on the wall.
Long black dress and little prayer cap,
So modestly sedate.
Her cloak for coldest weather was a shawl.

Grandma didn't have much money
But she lived a sinless life;
At least that's what my dear old daddy said.
He wanted so to show her
His dear children and his wife;
But he never made enough to get ahead.

When the good crops came
Our grandmama was dead.

B: Joyce 6/18/05