Generations Poem by Barry Middleton

Just five generations
most men will know.
I knew Great Grandfather
by a faded photograph
and family mythology.
He was pioneer stock,
Scots-Irish proud,
a strapping man,
mustached and sturdy.
My great Auntie
bequeathed to me
his Winchester,
legends of how
he killed a bear,
and that he was
a beloved father.
Would that we all
can be remembered
five generations hence.
His frame farm house
was crudely built
with cypress planks
a half yard wide.
The house wide porch
faced the pond and sunset.
His wicker chair was empty
in my childhood days.
His place at table
was a silent memorial.


This was my Grandmother's
'home place', she grew up there.
It was there she saddled
up her horse in morning fog
or snow white frost to ride
four miles to school each day.
I see her fetching potatoes
from the root cellar shed,
peeling onions in the kitchen,
or rolling dough for apple pie.
I see her even now,
idly watching a farm hand
prod the mule to turn
the mill in making sorghum,
waiting for her brothers' return
from the hunt, a brace of ducks
for dinner or better yet
fresh venison to butcher
and hang in the smokehouse.
Cistern water, hard living,
butter to churn,
scrub board wash,
garden work and sweat
from dawn till dark
was just a day's routine.
And still she lived to see
the telegraph, the telephone,
electricity, Saint Joseph's aspirin,
the auto and the airplane,
radio and radar,
TV, Johnny Carson,
and Neil Armstrong
landing on the moon.

Then came my Mom and Dad,
born in 1911, teenagers in 1929.
My mother danced the Charleston,
her flapper's eyes caught Dad's,
then came the Great Depression,
then World War II in 1939
curtailed their plans,
darkened their horizon.
There were ups and downs.
A dream deferred
is a dream lost they say.
I know that aphorism well,
lost youth, longing,
transgression and forgiveness.
I knew the sadness
of my parents lives.
And yet there were happy times,
hearts and initials carved in a tree
in 1947, a good year I would guess.
There were four children,
all grew up strong in our way.
I remember trying to convince
my father he succeeded.
As for me, gathering apples,
plums and muscadines,
home grown tomatoes,
swimming in our creek,
family meals, Christmas,
small town friends.
My parents did well I think!
But I was born to ask,
why cannot a man profit
from ancestors till they die?

But I do know my life the best.
Perhaps I did absorb some wisdom
beneath the beech, along the creek,
while sorting out dilemmas of my time.
Good God, the 1960s in Mississippi
were a fertile time for introspection.
I personally knew no one who was killed.
I roamed the hills and swamps,
camped, hunted, fished, and thought.
Steve and Charlie were my buddies.
Sam cut hair and preened the produce
in the grocery store where I cut meat.
I worked with Willie pumping gas,
washing cars, fixing flats
and greasing trucks.
I watched the prisoners work
and traded ready rolled cigarettes
for jail house tobacco
and even shared a beer
with convict stripped
black desperadoes.
I made it to Doctor King's rally,
totally missed the KKK
on Starvation Hill.
My father refused to give directions.
I remember James Meredith,
Freedom Summer,
the Freedom Riders,
Medgar Evers.
I remember Philadelphia,
(Mississippi that is) ,
I remember Jackson State,
Kent State, the War,
LBJ, Nixon, Watergate!
No redemption.
I remember the kids I taught!
Black kids - we now say
African Americans!
I remember their fear!
We survived it all.
Despite it all we flourished!

My son, my son -
and what will you discover?
The multi-tasking world
rushes toward you.
I cannot help you.
I was reared in slower times.
No I-Pod, no cell phone,
not even internet.
Face time has faded to Facebook,
responsibility for our words
hides in anonymity,
and what a world it is
we give to you.
Is it more a challenge
than great grandfather had,
to build a life after
bitter civil war?
Will it hold more wonder
than my grandmother saw?
Will there be more peace
than my father knew?
Will hope survive
as it has in me
despite the bitterness
and bigotry I fought,
and still I fight?
Try to ignore the manure son,
look for the pony always!
Take your time,
life is up to you.
Life is what you make it.