Wednesday, November 30, 2011

In which I present a poem: Mamaw

“Mamaw,” according to,
is “hillbilly or southern talk for grandma.”
I’m not southern but maybe was a hillbilly,
because that was her name.

Mamaw made egg noodles from scratch.
Strung all around the kitchen,
everywhere you turned.
Thin pieces of dough hung out to dry,
just like laundry.

Which she also hung out.
Didn’t get a dryer until the new house was built
somewhere around 1974.

I liked the old house better.
It had drafty windows and whole rooms closed off in the winter
to keep the heating bill down,
but it also had an attic and places to hide.

But they built the new house.
One level concrete ranch.
And stopped keeping chickens.
And started doing laundry inside.
And every Sunday we came over for dinner and watched TV.
First “Hee Haw” and then “World of Disney.”

But Mamaw didn’t totally give up her old ways.
In the fall we foraged mushrooms in the woods.
And I can still see those egg noodles
Hung out to dry.

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