The preachers were so vibrant,
Preaching fire and brimstone there,
All the families brought their picnics,
More then enough to share.

And after all that shouting,
Family and friends would gather round,
To hear the ole time music
And to sing and stomp the ground.

Grampaw played the fiddle,
He was a master with his bow.
Uncle shared the spotlight,
With his worn old banjo.

Another uncle played the juice harp,
Hooked to a frame around his head,
As he strummed the mellow guitar
With it's stripe of flaming red.

They played into the morning;
By the end, their hands did ache.
But they played that ole time music
Until the day would break.

Then they hitched up horse to buggy,
Slowly filing out toward home,
To put the horse to pasture,
Happily to freely roam.

These stories that Dad told me,
Would fill my mind with glee
And now, I want to share them
with all my friends and family.


© Carolyn Ford
October 3, 2005