Or The Fellas ‘Round the Old Pot Bellied Stove

From childhood memories

The farmers came down to the crossroads
Bright and early most mornings,
To the feed mill, to the gas station,
Most to stop in at the ol’ general store.

Pickup trucks circled like Conestoga wagons,
Bib overalls and John Deer caps
Stained dark with sweat and oil,
These, the industrious captains of agriculture.

You’d always smell coffee and wood chips a burnin’,
Pickles, pickled eggs,
And sometimes the aroma
Of a honey-smoked ham.

Hard candy, maybe peanut brittle
From the township’s Amish folk,
Or a dozen fresh honeydews
From someone’s garden patch.

A willowy man in dirty overalls
Grins with blackened teeth,
Bites off another chaw
From a plug of Red Chief “tobaki”.

While others smoke pipes or cigarettes
Or spit the troublesome juice,
Aiming for any one of three
Dented and tarnished spittoons.

Chairs semi-circle’ a pot bellied stove,
Heads nod, hands shake, lips move.
This, the epi-center of a rural community,
This, the makings of a makeshift meetin’ room.

Mostly old and weathered souls recline,
Surrounded by shelves of dry and tin-canned goods,
A sanctuary for cheese wheels and apple barrels,
Butchered meat, and hand made brooms.

The Barber reads the weekly paper again…
Town Hall business, market prices, the local bake sales,
Who died, who moved, who lost or sold their house,
Who got crazy drunk and ended up in jail,

Which high school jock lobbed the ball
And scored the winning points
Just as the buzzer wailed!

And none would give a pewter nickel,
(Let alone a rat’s ass),
For any politician,
With campaign slogans steeped in
Rhetoric or Bible quotes.
Forever promising not to raise the taxes;
That is, at least,
Until they finished up the countin’,
And stated the winner of the final vote.

These farmers knowing when to keep their fingers crossed
And when silence serves to hedge their vested bets;
Hoping not to jinx their luck if it’s been good,
Hoping yet to make it good if it’s been bad.

Voting one’s conscious,
A private and passionate matter,
An intricate part of the workings in this,
The agri-business heartland.

Then gossip flaps
Like wet lingerie.
Say, what’s that a hangin’
From yo’ neighbor’s clothes line?

Talk of shiners, coon hunts,
And questionable women,
This would-be militia of Civil War survivors,
With a hint of Jessie James and Pretty Boy Floyd.
.
But they are more about the weather,
Ah yes, the weather,
And it’s always been about that
Gal dern rain.

Then it’s on to braggin’ rights
For corn, pigs, cows, chickens, soybean or hay,
New kids, new chainsaws, new tractors,
And other such newsworthy claims.

Whether gathered for dawn’s first cup of coffee
Or in refuge from a necessary storm,
I can still see the fellas in those rockers and chairs,
There in a place that was welcome and warm,

And I could tell that they felt well connected,
A part of something,
Something greater than themselves,
Something more important.

Yeah, they’d been planted in this region,
To be caretakers of God’s great green earth.
And as stewards knew their life to be hard,
And help as good as the folks on the next farm over.

And high society would forever be
The daily gatherin’
Round the pot-bellied stove,
Down at the general store.



Michael S. True
2-12-14 last edit 7-31-14