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Eastern Jackson County, MO —
Old Spoons
It’s a gradual process
Mother said.
You take a spoon
a wedding gift
weighed for balance
shaped to fit comfortably in your hand.
You ladle oatmeal for the kids
stir a thousand gravies
make certain seasons of vegetables
don’t scorch.
You develop an edge.
Silver round diminishes
to a practical slant
to fit a pan.
What happens to the metal worn anyway?
It become a measuring
of how a life is spent.
Silver conducts warmth to bellies
settles in tongues and throats
strengthens backbones
lightens hair.
Spoons don’t wear easily
Mother said.
It takes half a life
to slant a spoon.
– Jean Morrison Baker
----
Bread
For two weeks before her 80th birthday
Mary talked about bread
How she was going to bake each week
give a loaf to anyone
who dropped by.
Lots did.
Her eight kids had multiplied
like yeast spores.
For her birthday
along with a chiffon nightgown
she would fold away in a dresser drawer
some dusting powder she would give away
and checks totaling three-hundred dollars
she got fifteen pounds of stone-ground
whole-wheat
and six packets of Fleishmann’s.
Mary said this was best of all.
She started. Kneaded and punched.
Called on God to bless each batch.
She baked when her feet were sore
and when the almanac said wait
for the moon to change.
And people kept coming...daughters, sons
grandchildren, neighbors.
Some just to inhale real deep
but each got a loaf of crusty homebaked.
One crisp Monday she started early.
By noon a dozen loaves
decorated the kitchen table
the last were in the oven.
She set the timer
eased down into the rocker by the window.
About sundown
a neighbor found Mary
in her floured apron
an oven full of charcoal
the timer screaming.
– Jean Morrison Baker
----
Her hands are bent and gnarled now.
Hands that over fifty year ago
Changed my diapers and fed me,
Clothed me, sewed for me.
Hands that made pot roast
And chocolate cake for my birthday.
These are the hands of my mother.
We celebrate this day to honor her
And all the others like her.
To those who toil and labor,
Rest your weary head.
Lean upon my shoulder.
– Gloria Effertz
Old Spoons
It’s a gradual process
Mother said.
You take a spoon
a wedding gift
weighed for balance
shaped to fit comfortably in your hand.
You ladle oatmeal for the kids
stir a thousand gravies
make certain seasons of vegetables
don’t scorch.
You develop an edge.
Silver round diminishes
to a practical slant
to fit a pan.
What happens to the metal worn anyway?
It become a measuring
of how a life is spent.
Silver conducts warmth to bellies
settles in tongues and throats
strengthens backbones
lightens hair.
Spoons don’t wear easily
Mother said.
It takes half a life
to slant a spoon.
– Jean Morrison Baker
----
Bread
For two weeks before her 80th birthday
Mary talked about bread
How she was going to bake each week
give a loaf to anyone
who dropped by.
Lots did.
Her eight kids had multiplied
like yeast spores.
For her birthday
along with a chiffon nightgown
she would fold away in a dresser drawer
some dusting powder she would give away
and checks totaling three-hundred dollars
she got fifteen pounds of stone-ground
whole-wheat
and six packets of Fleishmann’s.
Mary said this was best of all.
She started. Kneaded and punched.
Called on God to bless each batch.
She baked when her feet were sore
and when the almanac said wait
for the moon to change.
And people kept coming...daughters, sons
grandchildren, neighbors.
Some just to inhale real deep
but each got a loaf of crusty homebaked.
One crisp Monday she started early.
By noon a dozen loaves
decorated the kitchen table
the last were in the oven.
She set the timer
eased down into the rocker by the window.
About sundown
a neighbor found Mary
in her floured apron
an oven full of charcoal
the timer screaming.
– Jean Morrison Baker
----
Her hands are bent and gnarled now.
Hands that over fifty year ago
Changed my diapers and fed me,
Clothed me, sewed for me.
Hands that made pot roast
And chocolate cake for my birthday.
These are the hands of my mother.
We celebrate this day to honor her
And all the others like her.
To those who toil and labor,
Rest your weary head.
Lean upon my shoulder.
– Gloria Effertz
