Grandma sat on the stoop in her cotton dress, paring potatoes,
And watching with eagle eyes from her perch.
Her white hair wisps caught the afternoon breeze,And she gently brushed them back into the bun at the nape of her neck.
Her brown leathery skin told the tale of many years in the hot sun where she often hoed and weeded to feed her family and neighbors.
Grandpa worked in silence upon his sacred ground simply called “the garden”.
His gray cotton work pants caught at the waist with striped suspenders
were complimented by the ever present white striped cotton shirt, long sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Brown work shoes worn and dusty from the soil walked the rows in a slow gait which told the tale of a humble farmer.
The wash house at the edge of the hallowed space of green held the Maytag and the coal oil stove for cooking green beans and other sundry tidbits from God’s grace.
Gardening tools hung in array on rusted nails along the rough walls,
And the smell of beans and coal oil permeated the sultry air.
Toil, sweat, sun, rain, victory.
