Written Beneath the Oaks: Poetry for Young Hearts & Old Souls 1. utgave

An old brown and white trailer from the seventies nestled under and kind of behind a gigantic, billowing oak tree full of Spanish moss. The roots of that tree were my playhouse during those hot, summer days. Gravel road in front of the house, I have many a scar on my body today from that old gravel road. I can only guess at the hundreds of miles I must have ridden on my bicycle up and down that road as a child. Grangeville was basically a large gravel pit complete with only one store and one church. My grandfather was a truck driver; my grandmother, a homemaker and my best friend. Huge clouds of dust would come whirling down the gravel road when eighteen wheelers would speed to their destination to dump their load and carry on with the next. We had no air conditioner, only box fans whirring in the window sills carrying the smell of my grandmother's home cooking out in the yard to grab my attention that it was supper-time. I come from a time of party-line telephones, home-cooked meals, records, and eight-track tapes. This is the childhood I remember like it was yesterday, the childhood I ache to feel again.