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Mom

Mom áás>-" % " ? whistling girl and a crowing hen Will always come to some bad end!' " She smothered my songs. Then I'd mind my manners And wait for her gift of a piece of dough To shape anyway I pleased-- The only beaten biscuit in the batch She baked every morning. "I'll get you to set the plates, And mind that best one; It was Dad's." Corsetted and aproned, She presided Over country sausage and fried apples, Sifting cinnamon on a day Not yet light. Luring me lay her cupboard. I'd slip and crack the door, Gazing at her buttermilk pitcher Until its blue and white speckles Spun like polka-dotted swiss on a bolt. "Meddlesome Matty 'one grievous fault possessed Which like a cloud before the skies Hid all her better qualities.' " " 'Idle hands be the Devil's workshop!' " I've tried to figure out How she made lye soap from bacon fat To float like store bought Ivory, And the way she canned that crunchy kraut, Packing the cabbage in Mason jars, Baptizing it in brine, From a recipe unwritten. She was the last of a line of daughters Taught to ride a horse http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Mom

Woodall, Jane Brock.
Appalachian Review , Volume 12 (3) – Jan 8, 1984
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

áás>-" % " ? whistling girl and a crowing hen Will always come to some bad end!' " She smothered my songs. Then I'd mind my manners And wait for her gift of a piece of dough To shape anyway I pleased-- The only beaten biscuit in the batch She baked every morning. "I'll get you to set the plates, And mind that best one; It was Dad's." Corsetted and aproned, She presided Over country sausage and fried apples, Sifting cinnamon on a day Not yet light. Luring me lay her cupboard. I'd slip and crack the door, Gazing at her buttermilk pitcher Until its blue and white speckles Spun like polka-dotted swiss on a bolt. "Meddlesome Matty 'one grievous fault possessed Which like a cloud before the skies Hid all her better qualities.' " " 'Idle hands be the Devil's workshop!' " I've tried to figure out How she made lye soap from bacon fat To float like store bought Ivory, And the way she canned that crunchy kraut, Packing the cabbage in Mason jars, Baptizing it in brine, From a recipe unwritten. She was the last of a line of daughters Taught to ride a horse

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1984

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