A fire blackened pot from my childhood,
Grandma's wash pot of many years past,
A roaring fire, lye soap and boiling water,
Modern machines are a big contrast.

A large stick usually an axe handle,
Strong to pass the lifting and stirring test,
You scrubbed down the clothes on a washboard,
Then boiled them for cleanness at its best.

Long hard days of back breaking work,
The women then were hardy and strong,
Washing over an open flame,
Made the days hot and terribly long.

Cool weather brought meat processing time,
A trip to the local grocery store,
Did not feed a hungry family back then.
An extravagance one did abhor.

Come hog killing time was another use,
For Grandma's old iron wash pot,
Rendering fat to lard and cracklings,
A fat pig produced a lot.

Memories of these days returned,
As I look at my precious grandsons,
Taking in the site of an old iron pot,
And the way clothes washing was done.

We have come a long way since then,
Electricity and stores that carry it all,
But conveniences have taken away,
A sharing of togetherness as I recall.

Neighbor helping neighbor in eagerness,
Today one does not know their neighbor's name,
We have become selfish and uncaring,
Losing the human touch is such a shame.

Gayle Davisİ
14 May 2007
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