Today I feel like someone placed my head in a vise. I feel achy all over.
I rarely catch a cold, but when I do, it sets me back a notch or two.
Tootie Mae dislikes sneezing and the smell of Vicks Vapor Rub. I do not care for some of the stuff that she marvels at and sniffs, either. I would not stoop so low.
The weather promises to be nice this week, and I need to shake-off this bug and do some yard work.
I, also, need to clear the ditch along the homestead property of debris (leaves and small sticks) that accumulated over the winter months.
The giant oak near the long deep ditch drops a lot leaves. Sometimes, in the fall, I store my rake too soon.
I cannot wait until the soil on my garden spot is ready to till. The soil needs to dry out. We would like to get some potatoes in the ground soon, if not according to the almanac.
Dad had great gardens for many years in the place I will be planting. He planted with and without guidance from almanacs and suggestions from end of rows sitters and superintendents any day, any time. Hugh Lynch's gardens flourished and produced in abundance with sameness each year.
His father, taught him well. Natural abilities, hard work and dedication beyond compare helped him feed our family and many others during his planting seasons.
Soon I will plant again!
Last week I received news that my poem "The Planting Place" placed third in a national poetry contest that I entered a couple of months ago.
One day, several years ago, while walking through the rows of my freshly planted garden, thoughts of my dear departed loved ones overwhelmed me. I looked toward Restlawn Cemetery, just across the fence.
My wonderful family's brief return, if only in my mind, comforted me. Dad, Mom, Larry, Johnny, Etta Ann and little Larry Hugh came home to walk and work in our gardens, with Sandy and me.
That night I dreamed that I followed them back to His garden. All of my tears and fears vanished and my sorrows washed away. The vivid dream was short lived, but beautiful and indelibly etched in my memory.
I woke up inspired to pen the poem.
Some may find the imagery somewhat vague. I understand. Draw your own conclusions.
I threaded the planting imagery throughout the poem and used a disciplined approach to verse.
The Planting Place
I know a planting place where seeds were sown
And deeply set in loam of rootless time,
A place my heart alone and soul has known
That rests in confines cornered in my mind.
A place to stoke the fires that burn inside,
Rekindling embers into a ghostly glow;
I see the ripples of an ebbing tide;
And like a babbling brook, memories flow.
I drain the nectar from my longing cup
And reap the sweetness of a sweeter cast;
My garden bounties in fruitful sup,
And I bow to the passions of my past.
I touch upon my sorrows in my quest
While spirits fall into familiar hands,
Then I carefully lay them down to rest
Because I know a place that shifts the sands.
Now in the dimming of my darkest days
Into the brightest light yet to be shown,
While waiting at the portal of my amaze
I know a planting place where seeds were sown!
Mary Lou Lynch Sartor
All rights reserved
Happy Easter !
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.