Porter Gulch - 1950

The first Grama Hudson A two-minute memory

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From the archive of October 2023, this was written in praise of the first Grama Hudson at the Gopher Farm in Porter Gulch in the 1940s. My mother, Katy was the second Mrs. Hudson, in the 1970s and

Sharon Hudson

of

Gopher Farm

is the latest of the Gramas. This poem is dedicated to these strong beautiful women.

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The old widow woman in Porter Gulch

puts chips of kindling in the cold wood stove,

strikes box matches on the black cast iron.

The scent of pine is on her hands.

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She bends clean over to comb her long hair.

Grey and straight, it hangs to the floor.

She knots it up with twists and tucks,

thin wire hairpins, plastic combs.

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She watches, silent, at the kitchen door —

the Raleigh Man's coming on his monthly rounds.

He’s tearing down the road in his '39 Ford

and stirring up dust, like a wizard’s trick.

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Wiping her hands on her feed-sack apron,

she buys witch hazel and Epsom salts,

clove oil for toothache, licorice cough drops.

Law! The price is so high! she complains.

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She listens to music on the old Motorola,

“Silver Threads Among the Gold”.

Shh! she snaps, listen now, be still!

I'll switch your legs if you don’t pipe down!

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I sit cross-legged on the dusty rag carpet.

With a frayed shoe lace, I string wooden spools,

the carcasses of miles of quilting thread,

building a train to take me far from here.

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I cut out pictures from an old catalog,

making paper dolls, filling in the form:

“Pink sundress with a sweetheart collar”.

We'll send for that someday, she says.

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She sits in the rocker and thinks of her work —

The ditches want cleanin’ out by the road,

and the pipe from the spring’s near rusted through.

Better get ta bed afore nine, she sighs.

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She washes my feet in a white dish pan,

a bar of Ivory floats in the water.

Grama, I ask, do you believe in God an’ ever’ thing?

Oh, pshaw! she snaps, I b’lieve in life and that's all.

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At five in the morning, in the drafty kitchen,

the green paint’s peeling and the kettle's on.

She blows on the fire, gets out the Quaker Oats,

humming “Rock of Ages” out of tune.

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Deeply buried in my lumpy bed,

I pull worn patchwork over my ears.

Waiting for my world to warm up, I wonder

just how does a person pray to life?

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Sharron Bassano 2024