I promised to share my grandmother's poem; "A Tribute to the Old Ward House", on today's blog. It was her childhood home in Roxbury, Connecticut--described poetically by her:
A Tribute to the Old Ward House
An old, old home beside the way
Where four road corners meet,
A picket fence both brown and old
Encloses the yard from street.
Two giant cherry trees stand there
With limbs where one can climb
And sit and dream of a future day
In some far distant time.
A maple stands not far away,
And a fragrant cinnamon rose.
Quaint bushes kept by Grandma's hand;
White lilac the fairest of those.
The door at the front, entered
Over a step of stone,
Leads to a spacious, welcoming hall
That was once our own.
On the left is a door of old-time graining
Into the parlor, a lovely place--
Where the carpet, sofa, the rockers and table...
The flowered cross on the wall lend grace.
The shades are drawn to keep it cool,
The atmosphere is fragrant,
With pervading scent of flowers and fruit
Brought in by breezes vagrant.
Across the hall is the sitting room,
Rag carpet on the floor.
An old settee and ancient chair,
And homely things galore.
The Boston rocker where Grandma sits,
With knitting in her hand.
Her Bible which she daily reads,
On a nearby stand.
Into an adjoining bedroom I step,
And with wandering thought I stray;
About the place where first
I saw the light of day.
This room held sacred as no other...
Where I first saw my baby brother.
Now up the stairs--but first a pause
At the old stair-box, I lift the lid
And there I find
Old childish playthings hid.
The upstairs rooms I now explore,
And in the guest-room, through the door;
I see a bedstead of cherry red,
With round posts at the foot and head.
A cherry bureau and a chair
Beside an antique wash-stand there.
At the back of this, a mirror's hung,
That boasts a date when Grandma was young.
In another room I see,
The girlhood gifts prepared for me.
The shelf and stand my father made,
The cheesecloth curtains hung for shade.
Quickly to the stairs, descend...
And to the kitchen now attend;
Where everything is drab and bare,
Like the old, wooden-bottomed chair.
A spacious fireplace, and on a chain,
A brazen kettle hangs from a crane.
A hearth of stone before it lay,
Where nuts were cracked at close of day.
The pantry to the left I scan,
Where cream or milk in jar or pan,
Is set by windows wide;
To catch the June air from outside.
The golden butter, neatly bowled,
Is something better seen than told.
Something in distance far away,
From the processed kind we have today.
The back door to the garden leads,
To sage fennel and caraway seeds.
Also, the pickling favorite dill,
Here geraniums and lilies fill
The garden with a fragrance of its own,
Like the scent of hay, new mown.
By the walk are currants and sugar pear,
A knotty apply tree grows there
From which first apple pies are made.
A hammock stretched along the shade...
A happy pastime for little me,
Under the old, apple tree.
Back in the kitchen I stop;
At the door, on the left, into the shop;
Where Mother cooked in summer heat--
So many good things to eat.
On an old work-bench, along the side,
Are Father's tools, kept with pride.
A cheese-press where in days gone by,
Grandma made cheese and let it dry.
A table, old, a shaving horse--
Complete the list, but then--of course,
My memory fails to recall
And name them all.
Out of the front kitchen door I walk
Upon the old stone step,
My thoughts in retrospect.
I pause awhile and gaze about,
Under the shade of the Alanthys.
The well is at my left;
The handle turns, the bucket tips,
I draw it up as the water drips.
These thoughts are in the eye of mind,
Relics of a former time.
Today the scene is changed complete;
The house remodeled to the taste
Of those of modern ways.
As now I look upon the scene,
There's not a vestige I recall,
Unless it be, the old, stone wall.
Jessie May Ward Garlock
The first picture is from 1880 (approximate date); The second is present day.
"There's not a vestige I recall, unless it be the old stone wall."
