Aunt Norie’s Sewing Room
Continuing on from last week…
Going to sleep to the coyotes howling, yapping, and scrapping, then to…
To those cold winter mornings. We were so snug and warm under those soft, wooly and warm blankets — mom’s handmade, warm cotton-filled, hand-pieced wool quilts, or comforters (they were called).
I used to tell tales of those days to my children as they grew up, they were learning to write rhymes when I wrote this one for them:
“When my father shook the stove”
’Twas not so many years ago, say, 32 or 33,
When zero weather, or below, held many a thrill for me.
There in my icy room I slept, a youngster’s repose.
And always on my form I kept my flannel underclothes.
I was roused by sudden shock, though to sleep, I strove.
I knew it was seven o’clock, when Father shook the stove.
I never heard him quit his bed, or his alarm clock ring,
I never heard his gentle tread, or his attempts to sing.
The sun that found my window pane, on me was wholly lost,
Though many a sunbeam tried in vain, to penetrate the frost.
To human voice I never stirred, but deeper down I dove,
Beneath the covers as I heard my father shake the stove.
Bye for now. And God bless you
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