Sunup, sundown, rain or sunshine, grandpa made
raising beef cattle on a small farm his earthly calling.
Daddy Jesse—us grandkids called him—only owned
Herford stock. He called his cows with a bell-clap:
“Huh, cow! Huh, cow!” Hearing his voice, hungry
beasts hoofed down hilly footpaths for fodder.
A photo showed Daddy Jesse smiling proudly
beside his prize bull, his hand resting on its side.
Brown beady eyes of the bull scanned the barnyard
like radar, sharp stubby horns guarding fence lines
against intruders encroaching upon its territory.
Afraid I could not climb the fence fast enough,
I snuck behind the barn avoiding bullied stares.
Forty years later, weathered gray boards, empty
cattle stalls, jammed trash, fallen slats made
an overrun cowshed a stark forsaken derelict.
No one dared the hayloft’s dust and cobwebs—
who knew what else lay there until I tore
the barn down. Rotten floorboards broke
under pressure; locust posts stood bone hard.
After puzzling over my old bicycle frame—
minus tires—I carried junk to the dump:
glass window frames, broken apple boxes, rusted
bed springs. Daddy Jesse’s consternation resounded
in my ears like an old truck backfiring: Hey, boy!
Hold up! You need a good carpenter to repair
them roof leaks, replace them busted boards.
Daddy Jesse had a brusque way with feelings—
some called him gruff. When frustrated,
he uttered a singular curse, etched like
a knife carving in my mind. Mid-seventies,
brain cancer ravaged his mental wit.
First signs, emotional sensitivity—
expressing what came from his deep inner feelings.
As he ambled mindless last weeks, his right foot
strolled heaven’s streets while the left stirred up
dust clouds below. Hands high, his singing voice
spilled songs of paradise from the church choir.
As early dawn humor one Saturday morning
my wistful dreamlife brought Daddy Jesse back—
I dreamed cold water ran in my ear as he roused
me from my slumber. Then he lounged in his rocker
reading his Bible, warming his sock feet against
the outer frame of the wood stove as I dressed.
Having grown up in Blue Ridge Mountains, Jerry Buchanan lives in Johnson City, Tennessee. His published poems appear in Quill and Parchment, the American Diversity Report, Black Moon Magazine, Tennessee Voices Anthology, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Encore, and Bayou, Blues and Red Clay Anthology. He honed his poetry writing skills with two small groups of Appalachian poets, both associated with the Poetry Society of Tennessee. He travels back and forth to Western North Carolina to help folks at the family farm where he cares for his grandson, assists his elderly mother, and tends to milking goats.
**Featured image credit: Roger Starnes Sr—Unsplash