Hill-Billy Lore Poem by cheryl davis miller

I remember pickled pig's feet,
potatoes an hog jowl.
People never use to waste food,
not the way they do now.

Fresh greens gathered in the springtime,
delicious fried mushrooms.
Hickory wood for the smoke house,
food in the cellar room.

Mama cookin'in the kitchen,
hens scratchin' near the door.
Daddy trackin' in coal dust on,
the clean linoleum floor.

At night trippin' over rocks till,
I found that out-house door.
Fridays walkin' down the 'hard-road',
to the 'company store'.

All of the sweet familiar ways,
of not so long ago.
Forever gone as fallen leaves,
when the coldest winds blow.

Gone but not forgotten never,
replaced by better ways.
A melancholy fare thee well,
to all the 'good old days'.

I carry all these memories,
and many, many more,
Left-over rag-tag remnants of,
some old 'Hill-Billy Lore',

Saturday nights were for bathin',
in a number 9 tub,
Mama heatin' up the water,
so all could take a scrub.

Daddy was always the last one,
thats how it was back then.
Because you gotta save water,
when you pack it all in.

Daddy shavin' in a mirror,
above the kitchen sink.
Mama cookin up some breakfast,
given' Daddy a wink.

Walkin' to the 'Sunday Meetin',
as we hear the church bell.
Preacher is rollin' up his sleaves,
preachin' Heaven and Hell.

All of the sweet familiar ways,
of not so long ago.
Forever gone as fallen leaves,
when the coldest winds blow.

Gone but not forgotten never,
replaced by better ways.
A melancholy fare thee well,
to all the 'good old days'.

I carry all these memories,
and many, many more,
Left-over rag-tag remnants of,
some old 'Hill-Billy Lore'.


c.d.m.2012