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