(A poem of the times)
I see the years logged in colors, rich Calypso paints in dynamic shades, which mark the timeline there on the building blocks, of how houses were then made.
With the hammer in his right hand, bring out the shovel and bring out the spade. Where my father worked to build his own house and farmed the delta lands out on the glade.
He gathered and brought the money home, never gave his to the bank then went back asking for a loan.
T’was my father’s hand that had laid the foundation, he even hewed the cornerstones.
My father was mighty with the hammer, cutting the wood and plowing the ground. A marvel of a man was my own father. The greenness of youth yet set in his bones.
Our mother made babies then, and the family prospered and grew. Year after year they came along, so father added yet another row. Rows of blocks, that is, they mount up high just like stairs.
He would buy them as the money becomes available, and store them in the backyard out there.
He added the rooms as we would have the need for them, a room for Marty, one for Jack, and another for Ben.
One more room is added as each child appears. One for each of them, and then for those children of theirs.
In the sixth generation, the ceiling was set, my father was still here; he had not moved on yet.
Fifty years later and the picket fence finally up, Father downs the glad morning with a satisfied sup. Satisfied in knowing he’d gotten it all wrapped up, as he drank the hot coffee out of his favorite cup.
Screaming whispers are so loud now, that one can scarcely begin to see. The way these things are turning out, from the way how they used to be.
Marty’s home which he has just bought in town, is yet to cover up his weary sleep. Makes my father want so much to holler, and surely, makes him want to weep.
It’s hardly any bigger than one of these rooms, my father was heard to lament. At the little mushrooms on which his own son, had so much good money spent. But Marty is content and says small is the way to go. And since the dinosaurs are already gone, big is certainly not cool anymore.
My father laments at this too, and shakes his weary head. It’s their world now; he consoles himself. “My time is over, I’m almost dead.” But what ways are these for any man to live? I’d much rather get up and go. Than to live and work all my life, just to pay back debts that I owe.
I must go and lie down now; I’ve got to go and take my rest. I’ve had some great living in my time, I’ve done for them my very best.
But if I had it all again to do, which of these lives would I even choose? I’d build my own house all over again, and I’d just as gladly grow my own food. Thank you.
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