Round up the cattle, riding the old bay,
drive them to the milking barn, pitch them some hay.
Then off to the chicken house, gather the eggs;
grab a jug for Grandpa from the long row of kegs.
Grandma calls out from the cellar down below,
we kids scamper to her as fast as legs can go!
Lined up on a bench above the cool cellar floor
is a row of pies like one has never seen before!
Each of us selects a pie of our very own,
and take it with us when we leave for home.
Grandma cooks fried chicken, more than enough;
we kids eat so much our bellies puff!
The unique odors of that farm I recall even today,
the pleasant smell of fresh milk; the smell of hay;
the odor of a new-born calf, struggling to stand,
the chicken house; the sweet smell of plowed land!
The odor of bridle and harnesses stored in the barn,
of Grandma's spinning wheel with its colorful yarn.
The smell of buttermilk, as little sis churned away,
of fresh clothes on the line on wash day.
I recall the distinct odor of the stall of the bay,
of wildflowers in the pasture where oft' we'd play.
The chores were hard work down on Grandpa's farm,
but for all us children it held a wondrous charm!
By Paul Porterfield