Granny’s Seeds

In this busy world we live in we hardly have time to telephone each other for a nice long chat.  E-mail has become the normal, fast way of communication.  The result is that no one has the desire to become close or make attachments to another person.   In times past, neighbor visited neighbor.  They would take the time to bring the children to play and to have a cup of coffee.  At these visits when all the recent events were discussed, old events were remembered.  During these discussions of yesteryear, it was not necessary to say every word as your friend knew what the next word would be.  It is with this thought in mind that we submit the following poem:

 

GRANNY’S SEEDS

 

I found them there.

In Granny’s old dresser.   In a dusty shoe box.  The future wrapped in pieces of paper, old rags, and in jars with snuff in them.  Seeds of tomorrow.  But, O, what a past.

 

The Cow Cumber (cucumber) seeds.

Aunt Molly gathered their ancestors.  Did not notice the copperhead hiding under the leaves.  Its head flashed.  Sinking poison fangs into her ankle.  They placed a tourniquet on it, and left it for hours.  She begged them to loosen it.  They feared her death.  She said, “Death would be better.”  They untied it.  She lived to be 75.

 

The Maze (corn) seeds.

Nancy was pounding the seeds to make bread.  A neighbor’s boy came running.  “The soldiers have come to take us,” he said.  She took a poke, placed the cornmeal and the corn she had in it, grabbed her baby, and ran for the mountains.  They would not take her family west.  Tears would be shed on that road, and she wanted no part of it.

 

The Mustard seeds.

They tasted good after a long winter of dried beans and fat back.  Caldonia’s spirit was refreshed.  Tonight’s meal with her 20 children would be fresh greens, fodder beans, cornbread, and milk from the spring house.  It would not be hard to fix the meal.  She had plenty of help.

 

The Red Runner Beans.

Jane was gathering some to make fodder beans for the winter.  Will this war between the Democrats and the Republicans (Civil War) never be over?  They came then.  “David died of fever at Gallatin, Tennessee,” they told her.  All she could think of was to pick those beans.  She took them to the house, set down and cried.

 

We planted them.

The seed of the past would nourish our bodies and souls.  The old stories would be told as we worked in the garden.  In winter, when we took the summer harvest down from the shelf, we remember.  We speak with thanks at the beginning of the meal, “Thank you God for this thy bounty and for helping us watch under the cow cumber vines.

 

 

 

This poem was written by Theresa Williams.  It contains information obtained from family get-to-gathers, and talks with grandparents.

 

During the next few weeks you will have the opportunity to gather with friends and family.  We urge you to make it a quiet time.  Let your home be filled with the laughter, and by all means, bring up the old stories.  Only by remembering, can we come to the knowledge of just how thankful we should be.

 

Theresa Williams, Genealogist