Hi everyone,
Ralph Kennon was born in 1909. Yesterday would have been his his 111th birthday. Ralph was Sandy’s daddy. We sat and talked about him, remembering fondly some of the things he liked to say, how hard he worked, how much he cared for his family. For much of his life he drove a delivery truck for Holsum Bakery, getting up at 3:00 a.m., taking a cab to work so his wife would have their car, and getting home late in the day. He’d catch his breath and head for the garden to spend the next hour or so working in the soil he loved so much. He was proud of what he grew. He had a right to be. It was all wonderful. I wrote about him in one of my early books of poems, THE PURCHASE OF SMALL SECRETS.
HOME-GROWN
David L. Harrison
Tenderly,
fingers lingering
over wondrous gifts,
peeling
paring
slicing,
he contemplates with satisfaction
the completed act.
“Nothing beats home-grown,”
he says.
“You won’t find corn this sweet
in any store.”
Another platter,
meaty red slabs
surprisingly heavy
on white china.
“Try these tomatoes,
tell me these aren’t
the best you ever tasted.”
Sweet onions
served with garden talk,
language of the soil,
wisdom of grandfathers.
Golden ears dripping butter,
spinach wrinkly tender,
delicately green,
cauliflower better than expected,
green beans
demanding to be bragged on . . .
“You won’t find these
in any store,” he says
to heads bobbing
over full plates.
He nods,
agreeing with himself.
I smile and think,
“Nothing beats home-grown.”
(c) 1998 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved
Ralph and Kathleen weren’t huggers and kissers. You knew they loved you because they showed you, again and again, in all sorts of ways. Their lives were an example of, “Show, don’t tell.” One day, after Sandy and I got to talking about how she had wished sometimes when she was a little girl that her daddy would tell her she was pretty or hug her or say he loved her, I was moved to write a poem for her.
LOUDER THAN WORDS
David L. Harrison
He never told her,
not in so many words,
or kissed her,
or said she was pretty.
Sometimes she might have wished
for a hug,
might have wished
to hear the words
Yet she knew, always knew,
he did.
Whatever she needed he’d do —
blow the hurt off a skinned knee,
save his best tomato for her,
take her hunting and let her
carry the squirrels.
When she started school,
he picked her up
in his bread truck
and took her home
for a better meal.
Later,
when she lived three states away,
after work he’d drive all night
to see her for a single day,
bring her baby a bunny,
press small amounts into her hand
that made all the difference.
He’s been gone awhile and with him
his favorite expressions:
“You did that to yourself.”
“Boy I like ‘em.”
Gone, his boyish grin, beloved garden,
gone, those words unspoken
but few right deeds undone.
And even now she knows,
has always known,
how he loved her.
(c) 2011 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved
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