The following poem, “Porch Time,” was written by Mrs Wags several years ago as a present to her mother, Maxine on her 75th birthday. The poem refers to the many visits they shared on the large screened-in porch added on to their mobile home at Grand Lake, in northeast Oklahoma. Their home was nestled against a hillside among the pine trees back in the hollow of the lake in an area called “Piney Point.”
From 1948 to 1963, the family spent most of their weekends at a cabin on that same piece of property. The cabin, built by Terry’s father Paul and several friends, burned down in a forest fire in 1964. Many of Terry’s childhood memories are of the times spent at the cabin and her most cherished adult memories are of the hours spent rocking and talking to Maxine late into the night on that porch.
As twilight gathers around us, we take our places on the porch
and begin our little ritual, like the passing of the torch.
We talk about our lives, catch up on the latest news,
laughing at everything and nothing, we chase away the blues.
We talk about days gone by, and things we'd like to do,
things that have made us proud, things that have hurt us, too.
Oh sure, we've said it all before, but we can't wait to say it again,
as we share the latest tidbits, plus what happened way back when.
Somehow the shroud of darkness allows us to reach deep within,
and bare our souls to one another - mother to daughter, friend to friend.
Brief moments of silence are broken by the noises of the night,
the distant sound of thunder, insects buzzing in flight.
Crickets chirping in various keys, the whippoorwill's plaintive call,
the swishing of the pine trees, evoke memories large and small.
Memories of days gone by, a cabin filled with family and friends,
picnics, and homemade ice-cream, not to mention childhood's end.
Familiar smells waft through the air, carried on the summer night's breeze,
a mixture of pine and all that is home, fill us with a sense of ease.
These precious moments with one another are a balm to body and mind,
as the rat race of life ceases to exist, suspended in the porch of time.
By Terry Lee Wagner