"Good Manners"



One of the things I like about Granny

Is her manners.  She never forgets them.

Not if you're a guest at the house.  Not

If you're a stranger who just happens by.

"Come on in.  Git yerself a seat.  Are

You'uns hungry?  I'll fetch a plate.

There's a-plenty."  And she says it like

She means it, getting up from her chair

And stirring around until she's sure

You're comfortable.  Then, politely,

With perfect timing, she'll ask about

Your family, comment on the weather,

Or mention something she heard that day

On the news.  Her whole aim and purpose

Is to make you feel at home, kindly,

Finely, with manners befitting a queen.

To Granny, it seems to come so natural.





"Walking over Smoky"



It was always her dream.

Talked about it all her life.

Still talks about it

Though now Granny reckons

She's too old to make the trip.

"Lots of folks used to do it.

I never did.  You see,

Back then it was hard times,

And I had to keep workin'

To earn a dime.  Purdy

Cable asked me once.

She had two brothers lived

Over there, Jess and Rob,

Good boys they was,

But I passed up the chance.

Wish now I'd a-gone.

Ain't that far.

There's a trail takes you

Over Ol' Smoky and down

To Cades Cove

On the Tennessee side.

My daddy done it lots of times."

Walking over Smoky.

Granny's dream.

An old woman, crippled up

With arthritis, barely able

To get herself up and down

The front porch steps,

The only way she can go now,

The only trail left

For her to follow,

Is in her mind.





"The Reader"



Granny likes to read

Her eyes have about give out

But if she wears her specs

And if she holds the page

Up close to her nose

And if she can just quit

Shaking quite so bad

Granny can read all right

The Smoky Mountain Times

The Asheville Citizen

Books even

Or magazines

It's a habit she's had

And won't give up

Though she's close to blind

And you can't help but wonder

Seeing her scrunched up

In her favorite chair

Studying those little squiggles

You know are working alive

Like pollywogs

On the printed page

If maybe she's faking it some

Not that it matters

Not that it matters at all.





"The Guineas"



Granny's chickens are all dead now

Run over in the road, dragged off

By a fox, or a possum, chased down

And killed by Sid, the dog, hens

Screwed to death by roosters, or

Cooked in a pot, disease of course,

They died in a variety of ways.

Only the guineas have survived

To roam the place, weird-looking birds,

Who roost in the hemlock tree

And raise bloody hell when strangers

Come around.  Granny likes them.

She sits on the porch and watches 'em

For hours.  Watches 'em scurry

And scratch.  Watches 'em make holes

In poor Bobbie's flower beds

To dust themselves.  Watches 'em fly

Into trees and start an ungodly racket

She can't hear because she's deaf.

Bobbie hates the guineas.  She keeps

Begging me to get rid of them

Because of the noise and the holes

They make in her flower beds.

But I keep putting her off, knowing

How much Granny would miss them.

Knowing those guineas give her

So much pleasure.  Knowing guineas

Were always a part of her life

When her daddy made moonshine

Down in yonder, sounding the alarm

When some branch-walking stranger,

Some fool, came looking for his still.





"Granny's Bad Mouth"



Maybe it's just her age.  But lately

I've noticed that Granny growls a lot.

And breaks into cussin' the cats

At the drop of a hat.  "You whore-hoppin'

Sonofabitch," she yells out suddenly,

Taking off a shoe and tossing it,

"Get off this porch!"  And the cat

Skedaddles.  Looking might confused.

Granny'd just pitched one of her fits.

It happened again a few days later.

"Shit!" she said to the chickens,

For no apparent reason I could tell,

Then laid into the big rooster

For screwing a hen half to death.

"You whore-hoppin' sonofabitch,"

She shrieked, and this time I think

She had it right.  Maybe it's her age.

No matter.  At 88 you're entitled

To let it fly if you've got a mind to.