The Dunkard

My daddy was a Dunkard.
Oh no! I spelled it right.
Dunkards are like the Amish
Or simple Mennonites.
His mama was so pious,
His daddy not so much;
But they were all good people,
These Pennsylvania Dutch.

They had from the old Europe
Fled religious persecution.
He told me the old stories with
Eloquent elocution.
My daddy was very proud of
The line from which he'd sprung.
I wish I'd listened closer
To the tales when I was young.

His memories had grown dim,
Before my need to know
About my distant ancestors,
Who lived so long ago.
But Grandma left a quilt for us,
Made with her tiny stitches.
All we had from Grandpa was
One of his stinging switches.

It hung upon the kitchen wall;
Dad never had to use it.
It was a part of memory;
To use it would abuse it.
Dad remembered special dishes,
He taught my mom to make;
Chicken noodles and rich potpie
And a raisin-apple cake.

Souse, ponehaus and smearcase
Were staples of our diet.
Don't laugh you're missing something
If you've had no chance to try it.
But there was simply one tale
I couldn't quite believe
That when Grandpa courted Grandma
He wouldn't have to leave

When the parlor fires cooled down
And the room had grown cold.
Her daddy had the answer
Which to me seems very bold.
It was all right to climb in bed
When fuel they must hoard.
Her daddy put between them
A big, strong bundling board.

So my grandma kept her virtue
And my grandpa won her heart.
He married her and burned the board
Meant to keep them apart.

By:Joyce 4/23/03