Have you ever walked through an antique shop?
Seen the beauty there the memories all around you,
For instance, an old rocking chair.
Picture someone’s grandma dreaming and
Resting there, softly humming “Rock of Ages”,
The sun falling soft on her hair.
That wooden churn in the corner, -
Touch it gently as you pass by.
Think of the butter grandma’s lifted out,
Its creamy goodness piled high.
The coal oil lamp with wick burned low,
Fire in a fireplace, lamp on the table
Fills the room with a soft mellow glow.
That old wash bowl and pitcher –
What stories they could tell.
Newborn babies bathed just after birth
with water fresh from the well.
That worn old comfort lying there
Stitches so neat in a row.
Grandma made her own bedclothes
For warmth from the long winter snow.
The copper kettle smells of apple butter,
Smell of pickles in that old stone jar.
Look there - those brass headlights from
Grandpa’s first touring car.
The honey jar on the shelf was
Grandma’s joy and pride -
A wedding gift of another year
When Grandma became a bride.
The next time you go antiquing,
And, you pass an old rocking chair,
Listen carefully — perhaps you’ll
Hear “Rock of Ages” -
The memory of Grandma’s still there.
When you look at this old building,
Tell me what do you see?
Do you see the rusted hinges,
And the shutters swinging free?
Do you see the tattered curtains,
Flaking paint and weeded lane?
Do you see the falling roof tiles,
And the broken windowpanes?
I see a house of kindness and warmth,
Whose rooms are filled with love.
I see a house where there is faith,
And belief in God above.
I see a house of light and cheer,
Whose rooms once rang with laughter.
I see a kindly, knowing father,
With some children trailing after.
I see a house of hope and dreams
Whose rooms are filled with yearning.
I see a house that’s filled with books,
And lessons just for learning.
I see a house with a loving mother,
With open arms and smiling face.
You see a broken down building,
I see my old home place.
You see the house as it stands now.
My memory sees each little part.
You see the house with only your eyes.
I see the house with my heart.
Georgia Dodd Purtee
South Shore, KY
Walls were papered
With lilies and daisies,
From the worn carpet
Grew pink mums.
A long sunken couch with two chairs,
Stiff, dusty drapes
Wore patches of violets.
A tear glistened
In the old man’s eye
As he explained
He was selling because
His blind wife
Now tends another garden.
From “Somebody Ought to Say Something!”