A personal poem about my grandpa, who I never met. |
Paula Lehman 10/4/06 Haydenville Holler Grandpa, You were never more Than an idea to me. A picture of you In your uniform Sat on the mantle And I wondered What your voice sounded like. What it was like To storm the beach At Normandy. My aunt says You ate bacon For breakfast everyday And knew the woods And caves of Southern Ohio Better than anyone But the Indians. You are almost a legend At this point. The story of your birth. The fables about your Biological family. Your mother was a Cheyenne From an Oklahoma reservation. Your father, a German-American Bible and Snake Oil salesman. She ran away And he auctioned you off On some backwoods Church steps. July, 1920. Adopted by German and Hungarian Immigrants. Wonderful parents, farmers. Descendents of frontier people. Sometimes I envy you. You with your roots. You knew all the answers And grudgingly kept them To yourself. When I would give anything Just for their names. I know you resented them. You told Dad you only had One mother. Now you’re a guest At every birth, every Christmas. The sons look like you. Every child learns your story. I used to look at your picture And wonder What your favorite book was. If you felt rootless. Why you never encouraged Dad to be more Than you were. Coal miner, brick maker, soldier. He cried, looking at your grave That I had never even seen. Visiting his childhood hometown And yours: the woods That live in the back Of his hazel eyes. Even our family vacation Became a journey Back to you. The town built of your Star Co. clay bricks Is falling apart. Art festivals and grass roots Movements fill the old café. Burger King Where Jack’s Once stood. Seeing that town Was the closest I ever got To my roots. The family cemetery Behind the church Hidden in Haydenville Holler. Nothing but a full cemetery. And a white clapboard church. A field of tombstones With my last name— Your last name. But veins that never Held a drop of blood Like ours. Hundreds of names, dates And no answers. I felt most alone there. A stranger surrounded By dead, cement eyes. On the front porch Of the house you built I sit in your porch swing And imagine the smell Of your pipe smoke. Your work boots By the front door And the sound of your laughter. I sing your war songs And Johnny Cash, My father’s voice in my head And the woods in my eyes Creating memories with you. |