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Pauline B. Cheek OF A MIND TO Granny never learned to play her organ. Oh, she managed to puzzle out "Amazing Grace" And maybe "Sweet Hour of Prayer," But not what you'd call real playing. You could tell that the organ pleasured her, though. It stood in the North room, Along with the victrola and the plush pile settee, Over near the window, where the light Could catch the grain of the rich dark wood And any dust that dared to settle there. A crocheted runner protected the top From framed photos of the boys and the grandbabies. Nothing else rested on it, except a hymnal, of course, And maybe a pitcher of holly at Christmastime. To wander so far back from the road. ile could not hear the music inside There's no telling what prompted that salesman That slender young woman bending over the hoe. He could not look inside her house At embroidered feedsack pillowslips, At dahlias in a crock beside the kerosene lamp. There's no telling either what prompted Granny to sign That paper that stayed fourteen years in her bureau drawer, Daily reminder of payments due. Extravagance for her was usually a sack of
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 1979
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