# A lovely little poem



## mlappin (Jun 25, 2009)

So I went to the SWCD (Soil and Water Conservation District) banquet a few years ago and finally got around to read the guest speakers book. Pretty good stuff actually. A collection of short story's basically about growing up in rural America in the 50's. This guy makes his living from storytelling, and has been across America, to Europe, Canada, and Mexico to tell his story's.

The books name is called The Farm on Nippersink Creek: Stories from a Midwestern Childhood and the authors name is Jim May. He had his books there for sale of course and he also brought a couple of others. The Scenic Route: Stories from the Heartland and The Specialist.

In The Scenic Route he also has a short story that wasn't included in The Farm on Nippersink Creek and its titled Grandpa's Barn. He ends this story with a nice little poem that sticks in my mind for some reason, while it seems rather grim, it does have a happy ending, I promise.

Out of the Rain

Jim May

I always liked the old barn
The empty, powdery cow yard
Boards missing, ribs combing the air
A sieve for the west wind as it passed through

Forgotten skeleton with hay from horse-drawn harvests
Hanging here and there like loose flesh

I thought I'd stay awhile out of the rain
Then I spied the milking stool on the stained floor
Tipped on its side like a baby's chair or an oaken dwarf seat

I thought of my dad sitting with his legs under the cow
His head and cap braced against the flanks of the Holstein,
Milking

The silky sandpaper sound of milk careening into the empty bucket

He spoke of the Depression

Of the men, the young men, the old men
The sons of fathers, the sons and grandsons of farmers
Who, losing the farm, had stood on milking stools
Made themselves hay twine nooses
And stepped off into the sweet empty space above the lime floor
Their work boots hanging in the sweet manure air
Their boots kicking, perhaps reaching for the stool
To milk again

But too late to change their mind. Their boots hang still
The son of a farmer, the father of sons
Stretched from the beam, almost to the floor

The president of the bank
He hanged himself, too


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## Vol (Jul 5, 2009)

Dang Marty.....you sure it wasn't Edgar Allan Poe who penned that? Regards, Mike


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