My Grandma Dear

After doing a lot of research on my great grandmother Hattie Rozella Charlotta Jane Tuttle Anderson, I felt inclined to write a short poem about her. I do not profess to be a poet, but these were some of my feelings about her. 

  

                              My Grandma Dear

              

                 I was thumbing through old photos

                     From a box beneath my bed

                   Some were torn and others bent

                         Faces of kin long dead.

                   My passing glance soon focused

                        On a long-forgotten face.

                       I found myself transported

                     To a past and pleasant place.

                I strode a short, but well-worn lane

                        Toward the house of stone.

                   Its wooden porch was beckoning,

                     “Come stay, you’re not alone.”

                     The aroma of the kitchen air

                       Put memories in my mind.

                  Of bacon, bread and coffee cake

                      Which so many of us dined.

                     The creator of this lovely fest

                     Worked steadily at her chore.

                   She greeted me with loving gaze.

                  And said, “Come in, there’s more.”

                She used her apron clean and white

                          To grasp a sizzling pot.

                    Then once again she took it up 

                          To soothe her crying tot.

                         Some say a woman’s work

                          Is never quite complete.

                     Not even with the dishes done

                      There’s always rugs to beat.

                   I honor you, my grandma dear

                      For all your stalwart acts.

               You kept your family fed and cheered

                    And clothes upon their backs.

                  Things are all so different now 

                         But yet, that is not so.

                     We worry, fuss and bother too

                        Until our time to go.                         

                                         ~Cindy Eppich

Hattie Tuttle Anderson with son Dean
cir. 1925