THE FRONT ROOM

 

Mammaw’s first house had but three rooms, leading right on through,

From front door out to back porch, as all shotgun houses do.

The middle room had a table, round and black on sturdy feet,

With her bed across the north wall; in the corner stretched a sheet

 

To make her only closet, and a parlor stove at hand,

With a big Rococo organ, draped in aprons, hats and fans,

And over time that organ pealing out those hearty swells,

Took on a close resemblance to a melted carousel.

 

 

To the back there was the kitchen, with an oilcloth old as Time,

With Amana stove, the fridge, and Hoosier cabinet in a line.

The back porch had the mop, the broom, the washtub on a nail, 

And a little wooden stand to hold the wash-up pan and pail. 

 

For, as far back as a memory, those had stood there in that place,

And every one who entered knew to wash their hands and face,

And give a lick-and-promise with that time-worn brush or comb,

To pay the homage due the entrance to their Mother’s Home. 

 

But the FRONT ROOM, (living room, bedroom, nursery when I was small)

With its bedroom suite and couch and chair, LIFE writ every wall.

On the Dresser dainty doilies with a red-thread scarf to match,

And on the wall beside it, a stuffed bass---a lucky catch.  

 

Above the sofa hung an uncle's old M1 Garand,

And on a shelf beside it on a little marble stand

Was another uncle’s Purple Heart, beside his tin canteen,

Still in use for hikes and camping, still a valiant Army green.

 

And the sent-home-from-Korea silk-embroidered pillow case,

Inscribed “MOTHER” in the middle, with a framing of red lace,

Even Grandpa’s platform rocker had a scarf across the back,

With the week’s worth of COMMERCIALS down beside it in a stack.

 

And his spit-can so discreetly on the porch all cleaned and shined,

With his plug of Red-Man in a hand-stitched bag with hearts entwined.

For he never smoked or chewed during the day, although he could,

When you stand so close to clients, it’s important to smell good.

 

Dull grenades and shiny wasp-tails on the What-Not by the spoons,

With the tiny wooden outhouse Salt-and-Pepper’s crescent moons.

The velvet red pin-cushion of a turtle on a rock,

Sat beside a rosy teapot, whose reverse side was a clock.

A Gas Company match-striker in a cactus stood to hand,

With the cigarettes and matches over on the Smoking Stand.

And a swaying Navy-blue-flocked silver-script "GOD WILL PROVIDE,"

In the gentle oscillation of the humming fan beside. 

Through the smoke and dust of Memory, these things shine through the gloom,

Of that house that held my Childhood, and the PAST in That Front Room.