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GinNie Tanner Smith

Rookie (1948 / Seymor, Indiana)

Harvest Home Gathering


Harvest Home Gathering
Gin-Nie Tanner Smith, November 23,2011, Copy Right 2011 ©

Gathering at the fireside of The Lodge in a bittersweet blend,
‘Round the heart of the legacy of the lower cabin's warm hearth,
Ere each Thanksgiving since the good Doc Gilmore did begin,
To bring his family together in celebration of the Scotsman's kin;

As autumns' chill kisses the breeze surrounding the clan's legacy,
The upper cabin's chimney swirls wispy blue smoke round the porch,
Through the lopsided barn in a protective haze accentuating the antiquity,
I relish the warmth from the sun of an atypical fall day and the blessings that be;

Within the carpet of fading leaves scamper dozens of offspring within gleeful mirth,
Those wee progeny of the highland unknowingly capture their connection of kin,
The children's laughter echoes with the banter of long-lost cousins of varied birth,
Kinship prescribes no strangers, as does one's passing of years on this earth;

Within the rustic walls set with photos of the hunt, father, mother, uncles and aunts,
Sharing the bounty of the harvest home gathering with home-cooked cuisine,
Thanksgiving in prayer of those gone on and those loved ones within our stance,
Memories of good times and sad, heals our hearts with strength and holds fast;

The clay at the ready, long guns take aim as the legacy's turn doth come,
Sharing the sport and the fellowship of the hunt, in this way or that,
Carolina, confederate and the USA's fluttering colors sets a tears' run,
Although proudly American, "Did the Yankees take Richmond" is a family pun;

As the light fades with streaks of autumn hues filtering through the ancient trees,
Libations and hugs shared; for we know that time grows short in so many ways,
Gathering ‘round the rock over ninety are we, to capture this moment for posterity,
In mystic vision I see astride a fine steed, with familiar eyes beaming, is he;

Slowly, each family reluctantly takes leave down the piney lane, one by one,
Sparrows lyrically dancing on strings escort with musical notes resound,
Behind the elders of the clan within misty thoughts of the setting sun,
Echoes "My children, well done" from upon his mount, as he spurs to a run.

Submitted: Saturday, March 02, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

When we began the journey of finding my husband's blood father we had no idea of the amazing revelations to come. His father had died at 55, years ago; but his brother and sister welcomed us well and shared the family history as a gift we treasure well.

This verse is dedicated to the Thanksgiving tradition of gathering of the Scottish clan at the family ranch and compound near Siler City NC. Doctor Gilmore (my husband's grandfather) began this tradition, along with fox hunts upon fine horses within the compound. My youngest son, is the reincarnation of Doc Gilmore in face and stature.

We are of the Morrison Clan, heirs of Olaf the Red, a Viking king who sent his son, Olaf the Black (with his wife Laon and baby son Gilmora) to explore new land. They crashed their ship and crew but survived as the swam ashore to found the Isle of Mann.

This is just part of the journey in this amazing history of the Gilmore legacy.

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