The art of campfire storytelling

The Gift Horse

R.S. Gregory

In a brand new wooden stall,

Built of rough-cut pine.

Is a newly purchased sorrel mare,

All fit and brushed up fine.

She stands in wide eyed wonderment,

A red ribbon that she wore,

Her ears are perked, her feet are square,

She smells the saw dust floor.

She hears a noise, it startles her,

It’s the slamming of a door.

The kids are running from the house

There’s three or maybe four.

They’er charging at a full-on run

They’re screaming as they fly,

“This could be the best gift ever,

Could’nt you just die!”

The kids they cant believe it.

And Mom and Dad just smile.

She cost a lot of money

But an investment, much worth while.

There hangs a shinny bucket.

The feed cans are brand new.

There’s second cut alfalfa,

And treats for her to chew.

Shampoo and gloss and conditioner

And de wormer there on the shelf.

And an encyclopedia of horses

For if they’re needing any help.

A comb, a brush and hoof pick,

there in that plastic tote.

And one of those fancy water’ers

With an automatic float!

The kids they ride near daily.

She is brushed and curried well.

The stall gets cleaned, the tack gets stowed

The attention, you can tell.

They have taken her to clinics,

Where they’ve had her whispered to.

She can walk and trot and change her gates

All taken right on queue.

This mare, she’s just plumb gentle.

And she always baby sat.

Even when she’s all dressed up

In glasses and a big ol’ yellow hat!

Their friends they love to hang around

Even helping with the chores.

But as much as they like this mare,

They love their summers more.

There’s only twenty four hours in a day.

The future could foretell.

These people had no idea

The amount of work entailed.

Parties, dates and sleepovers,

The activities never end.

Hanging with the other kids,

The more they seem to spend.

We’ll ride our horse tomorrow

They promise with a plea,

We’ll ride her and we’ll brush her,

And clean her stall, you’ll see!

But, tomorrow comes and goes

And they haven’t done it yet.

We’ll ride her on the weekend

And for sure we won’t forget.

But now It’s fall and school it starts

And the weather’s getting cold.

Now they have their other sports,

This chore has gotten old.

There’s just so much they have to do

They discuss it in the halls.

Keeping with the latest trends,

Requires gathering at the mall.

With each and every passing day

The attention’s getting lost.

The kids and parents they don’t care

But this mare, she pays the cost.

The kids they fight to feed her.

None taking on the chore.

She stands in lonely sorrow

Being cared and loved no more.

Mom, she mostly feeds her.

Thrown a leaf or two of hay.

But it’s certainly an inconvenience

To her packed and busy day.

Dad, he yells and threatens

“I swear I’ll sell that horse”!

But he’s filled with pure indifference

And he could’nt care of course.

The kindest thing he could ever do

Is find that mare a home.

Filled with folks and other horses

And green pastures in which to roam.

But the mice they nest the blankets

And cans are empty in the shed.

This horse was the “Best gift ever!”

Repeating what once was said.

We find the once new saddles

All dusty, dried and cracked,

Abandoned in a corner,

Or thrown beneath their empty rack.

For now,

She spends her days in boredom.

A prisoner of her pen.

Her head hangs low, her hips are cocked,

One hoof tipped up on end.

The fly’s they swarm around her

She whips a tangled tail.

They bite and sting and annoy her

A horse’s own brand of hell.

Her lips they search and ply the ground

The filth she blows away.

While looking for the slightest remnant

Of weed or grass or hay.

Now some are born to royalty

And ridden by great kings.

Some are born to glamour

And admired in the ring.

Some are given to explore

And others give in battle.

A few still run so wild and free

While others tend ranch and cattle.

But this mare was just a simple gift.

The choice was never hers.

Now she stands in solitude

Her coat dulled by dust and burrs.

Her hooves untrimmed and splaying,

Her ribs their showing through.

She stands in bored indifference

Behind a fence, disrepaired and chewed.

She no longer calls and knickers

As her companions don’t arrive.

The sprit’s dulled in this equine friend,

As seen in those deep dark eyes.

And people?

Most are blind to see it.

She’s not beat with whip nor quirt.

She bares no scars of anger.

It’s her heart and soul that’s hurt.

And still this horse she stands there.

Silent, she bares the pain.

A single horse in a herd of one

As another day has passed again.

Although she doesn’t reason.

There’s no action that this deserves.

For reasons that a horse might think

She stands in stanch reserve.

She handles what nature gives her.

The heat, the rain, the snow.

She stands a lonely vigil

Resolute, as only a horse would know.

There are no great solutions

Or a devised or cleaver plan.

Not sure how it all got started

Not sure how it all began.

She was so easily forgotten.

From the human herd she’s ban.

She stands in silent testament

To the indecencies of man.

So, as you travel through this world

And you see this backyard mare,

Take a moment and softly honor her,

Least, those in the house don’t care.

Midnight at Mabel’s Cafe

R.S. Gregory

On the left-hand side of Main Street,

Just three bocks up from first.

There’s a little place to grab a bite,

And quench your late-night thirst.

It’s wedged between old buildings.

Across from Aunt June’s store,

And that long abandoned Woolworth’s

That set’s vacant right next door.

Yellow light through greasy windows,

Lights the sidewalk with its rays.

A sign that reads “Sorry Were Open”

Its midnight at Mabel’s Cafe.

The oak door is old and heavy,

The trim has out lived its paint.

The date up on the old façade,

One year shy, of nineteen twenty and eight.

The Florissant lights are all greasy.

The ceiling is pressed out of tin.

The floor is old and worn out,

No wax, since who really knows when.

Plaques on the wall by the front door

Show kids with their sheep and their steers.

A sign that reads “Local Checks Only”,

The till rests on an old dresser from Sears.

Grey haired, she sits at the counter.

Hot coffee and a dirty ashtray.

It’s the owner herself, Mabel Griffin.

Its midnight in Mabel’s Café.

A young couple sits at a table.

A new baby sleeps there on the chair.

The girl wants a refill of soda,

Upset that Mabel don’t care.

Her boyfriend picks at his French fries.

A John Deer cap tip’s back on his head.

He’s tired, wore out and dirty,

Just wants to go home and get into bed.

She fusses with the blanket and baby

She tells him they should not have to pay.

He tells her to forget the damn soda.

Its midnight at Mabel’s Café

A family of five have a table.

They were driving clear though the night.

When they saw it was the only place open,

They stopped to grab them a bite.

The kids are dressed in their jammas.

And the folks look plum tuckered out.

They’ve been on the road for long hours.

A wrong turn, they veered from their route.

Above them the head of a mule deer.

And crowded to tight on that wall,

Is a faded old reprint by Russell,

Showing a gather’en late in the fall.

Out front, a dog is tied to a meter

It’s mangy and looks like a stray.

A transient argues alone in the corner.

Its midnight at Mabel’s Café.

Three cowboys are drunk and their partying.

They’ve been drinking most of the night.

They’re laughing out loud and their rowdy,

And of course the smallest is looking to fight.

He’s scanned the place for a victim.

But all have avoided his glare.

All but that bum in the corner,

Even the cowboy has avoided his stare.

An old rancher and his wife finish eating.

Headed home from a dance at the Moose.

He tells her he wished he were younger.

Cause that cowboy would be fix’n to loose.

Now the cowboy starts up with the kitchen.

“Coma mierda” replies Chef Jose.

The drunk is confused by the Spanish.

It’s Midnight at Mabel’s Café.

Suddenly, everyone jumps at a ruckus.

A glass shatters from hitting the floor.

A man yells “Okay Hun, I’m sorry”!

Some lady now stomps to the door.

“Come on, I didn’t mean it”!

She says “Fine, but I’m taking the car”.

He holds up the keys like a trophy,

“Without these you’re not gonna get far”!

The cowboy jumps in on the action.

He turns to the man with the keys,

“Hey, you got a problem their buddy,

You want’ a try picking on me”?

All eyes are on the two drunkards.

Silent, the place waits for their move.

Mabel yells out from the counter

“Take it outside, if you’ve something to prove”!

The young girl cradles her baby.

The family is worried and scared.

The bum in the corner still mumbles.

Two drunks whose tempers have flared.

Suddenly the front door it jingles,

It swings open wide and so fast.

Everyone turns in unison,

As an imposing figure’s now cast.

The Sheriff walks into the cafe.

A big man named Eli McCray.

He sits at the end of the counter,

Making it clear he’s planning to stay.

The two back out of their anger,

No longer wanting to fray.

The place is still deathly quiet.

Its midnight at Mabel’s Cafe

“How’s things around here tonight, Mabel”?

Looking past her to the boys in the back.

Making sure to give them the evil eye.

Then ordering his coffee, “Sweet, hot and black”.

“Jose, mi amigo” he shouts.

Make me a stack of your cakes.

The kind where you start in the middle,

Then eat your way to the edge of the plate.

The cowboys are feeling a mite antsy.

So, they gather up and head out to leave.

“Hope you boys aren’t driving tonight”?

Eli now queries the three.

“No sir, tonight were a’ walking.

And we promise to keep it that way”.

But, once out the door they start laughing.

Its midnight at Mabel’s Café.

The lady with the traveling family,

Walks to the restroom way in the back

There’s a hole from the missing door handle.

And the window sticks open a crack.

The husband talks with the Sheriff

And gets directions back to the road.

They gather the kids and their blankets

And pay Mabel the bill that is owed.

Toothpicks are boxed by the register.

Those mints cost only a dime.

And for the sum of eleven fifty,

A cookbook from the Sweet Adeline’s.

Curled photos of Mabel’s grand kids,

Tacked up in a random display.

She’s four years behind with the photos,

Its midnight at Mabel’s café.

The young couple leaves with their baby.

The man has left with his keys.

The drunk cowboy has left his wallet.

While the transient’s catching some zees.

He’s woke up and told to get moving.

“Get on out and go find a home”.

The dog is still curled on the sidewalk,

She slips the bum some soup and a bone.

Mabel clears and wipes down the tables,

From the floor Jose sweeps up debris.

She shuts off all but the front light,

Locks the door and turns off the TV.

She flips the “OPEN” sign over,

Reading “Your lucky were closed here today”.

The three sit and talk at the counter,

Its midnight at Mabel’s Café.

The Bull Rider

R.S. Gregory

The cowboy pulls-in

In his ol’ pickup truck

Drawn up in the bull riding

Gonn’a try his luck

Now this cowboy you see

He’s just an average bull rider

Not a champion at all

But a heck of a try’er

The bull that’s he’s drawn

Ol’ Pretenders his name

He’s known to be rank

And at the top of his game

Now this bull is big

And tough as they come

Stomping on cowboys

Well, he’s second to none

He stands 6 ft high

Tips the scale at 19

He’s got disfigured horns

And a disposition that’s mean

In the middle of his back

Is a big ugly hump

He’s got dark evil eyes

And a green slimy rump

Ol’ Pretender he stands

In his cage cool and calm

While on the cowboy’s blue denim

He wipes sweat from his palm

Out in the arena

The shows underway

But he’s got his thoughts

And it seems far far away

But soon a crew comes

To gathers the bulls

The chute gates slide open

And they fill up those holes

Things get real busy

As you hear the bells clank

And the cowboys they tell

How to ride that bull to the bank

So, the ropes go down

Then around and back up

As the cowboy sits down

Old Pretender flares up

Against the chute wall

he mashes his knee,

The cowboys they grab him

and they pull him up free!

He regroups for a moment

then eases back in.

Keeping his focus

as he try’s it again.

He heats up that rope

with a hot rosined glove.

And into the loop

he gives it a shove.

Around his gloved hand

he’s taking his wrap.

With two twists of rope

Then he pounds her down flat.

The chute boss is hollering,

“Son, we ain’t got all night”!

So he slides to his hand,

and pulls his hat on down tight.

He’s nodding his head

as he calls for the gate.

He’s not quite ready,

But, it’s a little too late.

The gate, it swings open

and they explode from the chute!

The bull whips him down

but he stays with the brut!

The weight of that bull

slams into the ground,

They’re pawing up dirt

like their headed hell bound!

The bull throws his head

and spins to the right,

He locks in a spur

and he’s still set’n there tight!

He’s pumping that free arm

back over his head!

But coming off in the well,

he’s beginning to dread!

Pretender keeps spinning

and the going gets rough.

This cowboy is thinking

this bull’s pretty damn tough!

Suddenly the bull

he turns and cuts back!

And the cowboy gets loose

and he’s showing some slack!

Those fancy blue chaps

are catching some breeze,

And he’s flung to the dirt

just as quick as you please!

Now Pretender looks back,

now the tables have turned.

Now it’s the drover

with a lesson to learn!

The cowboy looks up

and he knows he’s been caught.

He’s scrambling to avoid

this painful onslaught!

That bull heads him down

and hooks a horn in his shirt,

The cowboy finds religion

right there in the dirt!

The bull fighters jump in

to this angry fray.

They cut the bull back,

and they turn him away.

During the ruckus

the buzzer has sounded.

It was only 4 and 2 seconds

before this cowboy was grounded!

The cowboy is dazed

as he gets to his feet.

But the bull is still loose

so it’s a hasty retreat!

He jumps to the fence

from the arena floor.

As the announcer drones out

“For this cowboy, no score”!

So, he makes his way

back behind the chutes.

Where he gathers his rope,

and his spurs and his boots.

And the cowboy’s walk by as

as his rigging he packs.

Giving condolences

and pats on the back.

Now he begins to feel

the pain of it all.

But mostly it’s pride

that’s feeling so small.

He thinks of the past,

and the cost and the miles.

Of the dirt that he’s eat’n,

and he laughs with a smile.

It’s rodeo!

And like so many before.

There’s a drive deep inside him

that cant be ignored!

So, the cowboy pulls out

in his old pickup truck.

Drawn up in the bull riding,

again, dang the luck.

The Final Gate

R.S. Gregory

Sitting proudly alongside his dad

While riding shotgun on the seat

Dad turns the old pick-up truck

Leaving the pavement on the street

They rattle down that old dirt road

Gravel plinking off the tin

The dust boils up behind them

In that rolling noisy din

As his Dad slide her to a halt

He grumbled and he fussed

He reaches down and opens the door

The cab fills up with dust

H e pauses for a moment

Then looks over at his son

If that boy’s going to be a cowhand

It’s time that it begun

Now’s as good a time as any son

To learn to pull your weight

You want’a jump on out

And go open up that gate

The boy he can’t believe it

He’s treating him like a man

He really gets to help his dad

Just like a real cowhand

He jumps down off the running board

While he holds onto the door

He’s feeling like he’s six foot tall

He’s doing a cowhand’s chore

His dad smiles as he watches him

As he shuffles through the dirt

He’s going to be a real top hand

That ornery little squirt

He wears a beat up silver belly

That fits him way too big

With an old plaid and flannel shirt

Covering arms no bigger then a twig

His jeans are loose and baggy

And rolled up at the cuff

His back pocket’s full of liquorish

Pretending that it’s snuff

He’s wearing those old cowboy boots

There’s no doubt they’re hand-me-downs

They’re dried and cracked and curled at toe

And scuffed near all around

His little fingers try the gate

But they lack the strength they need

He looks up to his dad who says

Try real hard son and you can get her freed

But now that gate it shows its age

It’s no longer straight and true

With wire as old as he is

And posts that lean askew

He’s not sure why he thought of this

Or why he reminisced

Or why his mind reached back across

This historic old abyss

He eases down off the running board

As he holds on to the door

He’s feeling mighty stiff and old

And he’s tired of doing chores

He wears a beat up silver belly

That looks a little too small

With an old plaid and flannel shirt

Covering a back once straight and strong and tall

His jeans are loose and baggy

And rolled up at the cuff

A halo in the left back pocket

Wore through from a can of snuff

He’s wearing those old cowboy boots

There’s no doubt they’ve been around

They’re dried and cracked and curled at toe

And scuffed near all around

His fingers are old and tired

And they lack the strength they need

He hears the words of his father

Try real hard son, you can get her freed

Then suddenly so free and easy

That gate it opens wide

Smooth and quite it opens

Without having really tried

Again he hears his father’s voice

Son now you know your fate

I want to welcome you home with us

You’ve swung your final gate

Turn around and take a look

Down the road that you have traveled

That’s quite a life you’ve chronicled

And some tough old fights you battled

There were places where the road was smooth

And places where it’s rough

But on that road as a mortal man

You earned a place with us

You turned out to be quite a cowhand

You lived your life your own

You learned to climb back on your horse

Every time that you were thrown

I know it weren’t an easy road

And seemed an uphill climb

But it earned a place with us for sure

Now close and latch that gate son

For the last and final time

Cowboys are King

R.S. Gregory

Many of our morals

To this day yet,

Were shaped by those cowboys

On our old TV set.

We rode with our heroes

on the floor where we lay.

While Mom yelled in frustration,

get on out and go play!

But we argued and pleaded

and Mom would give in.

She knew with conviction,

she weren’t gonna win.

Now finding our programs

was always turmoil.

We fought those rabbit ears,

you know, with the aluminum foil?

Then through the static

and the filtered snow.

We would get ghostly images

of our favorite show.

We watched moose and rabbit

and Captain Kangaroo.

Even Mr. Green Jeans,

but they weren’t no buckaroos.

We had other great shows

like Ward and June Cleaver,

It stared Jerry Mathers,

as, well, the Beaver.

When Lassie came barking

Mom exclaimed, “Ah hell”.

She knew Timmy had fallen

into another darn well!

And with his niece Penny

and a Cessna 310,

Ol’ Sky King would fly in

and triumph again.

But it was the cowboys!

And we couldn’t wait.

They corralled all the bad guys

and set’m all straight.

We watched other shows

like Gun Smoke in Dodge City.

But that was for grown ups,

with Mat Dillion and Miss Kitty.

We had the Cartwrights

three brothers and Dad.

They were sure’nuff cowboys,

and that show it weren’t bad.

But I’m here to tell ya,

the ones we loved best.

Were Gene, Roy and Hoppy

and the others out West.

They rode silver saddles

With bridles that match.

That sparkled and shimmered

as the suns rays they would catch.

They wore custom tooled holsters

where their six guns were toted,

With matched ivory handles

And never need reloaded!

In spotless white Stetsons

and embroidery and fringe,

Fancy and gaudy, it would

make a real cowboy cringe.

They could stop a bar brawl

with the point of a gun.

And those slick, cheat’n ranchers,

were set on the run.

Right in the middle of

righting a wrong

It was a sure bet,

they would break into song.

Strumming a six string,

a song they would turn.

Usually, a ballad

with a lesson to learn.

And there were pretty girls

those Queens of the West.

And no matter the trouble

they were looking their best!

But these old shows,

Were pretty clean of course.

The only kisses we saw

were on the nose of a horse!

These sage brush sagas,

we will never forget.

These black and white cowboys

on our T.V. sets.

Now we’re all grown

and they have all passed.

But of each these saddle pals,

our memories will last.

So were ever they ride

and they rope and they sing,

we wish happy trails

Because to us, these Cowboys are King!

Dark Side of the Moon

R.S. Gregory

The mountain tops behind the Sequoia’s brings an early dusk

On the flats there’s two more hours of daylight upon the earthen crust.

Mounted leather and horseback, he rides through the darkened veil,

Trusting the horse and his senses to navigate the trail.

The majestic peaks and ridges that rule this ancient valley

Turn trees and shadows sinister; into the devil’s alley.

An evil and forbidding place that is just an hour old.

To stay up here past daylight takes a cowboy sure and bold!

High upon the rocky cliffs the storm blows the angry air

Warning all of nature’s kin to take heed and to beware.

Daylight has relinquished to the dark forbidding night

Except for a chilling wind, the canyon is deathly quiet.

He hears the familiar sounds of the horse’s gaited hooves

As they land upon the rugged rocks, deep in the blackened woods.

And the sound the saddle makes, the creek of old worn leather,

Riding to their destiny this man and beast together.

He knows he should be home by now he should not have veered his path.

Cussing his decision, he’ll be punished by the storms impending wrath.

The house is warmed by the radiant heat of the crackling wooden fire.

His wife, stands at stove, turning pieces of a freshly butchered fryer.

The wind, it’s gotten stronger as it whips an ever-growing gale.

As a cowhand, getting caught like this is a sorry-ass portrayal.

He feels the sting of rain drops as they bite into his face

His horse feels the same as they as they quicken up their pace.

The cold and rain hits harder now as the wind drives it through the pines.

Growing ever stronger, the wrath of hell descending any time.

She looks out the darkened window, seeing only a reflection of her fright.

He should have been home hours ago, on this dark, uneasy night.

The young horse is feeling antsy, the cowboy feels it deep within

He tries to sit him gently and assuring words he’s whispering.

He knows he must do something, even if it’s wrong

He needs to get dismounted and seek shelter from this storm.

Then suddenly and without warning the mountain explodes in brilliant light,

As the lighting sizzles through the trees then plunges back into the night.

She too saw the bolt of lighting as it lit the valley floor,

The loud and ominous thunder spoke of what it holds in store.

That angry bolt of lighting reflects deep in the gelding’s eyes

Laying the foundation for their eminent demise.

The red and violent lighting, rips from the canyon sky,

The girth it strains and sunders, the horse now bucks and shies.

Too cold and slow to keep it gathered his reactions mighty slack,

He hits the ground hard and fast and he feels his leg snap back.

She too is feeling antsy she fears there is something wrong

“Clear your mind of those thoughts girl, it’s only hours that he’s gone”.

The pain, it shoots through his body; he can taste the blood and dirt.

He tries to roll himself over; he knows he’s really hurt.

He knows his leg is shattered; his head is nearly split in two

No one will ever find him, where to look; no one has a clue.

The young horse has bolted wildly the saddle asque upon his back

Crashing down the mountain, fleeing natures wild attack!

Footing lost upon the rock, from the cliff to deaths repose,

Eyes now staring motionless, blood dripping from his nose.

Angry, the storm continues, the cowboy can’t see or hear a thing

He’s reduced to an unwilling victim of what his fate will bring.

Now here he is, on a cold wet night, across the rocks he’s strewn

Knowing that he’s all alone, like the dark side of the moon.

She knows he’s deep in trouble, she feels it in her heart

She’s driven by the need to help, not knowing where to start.

With a lamp still lit and burning and food left upon the plate,

She enters nature’s fury, no longer can she wait.

She struggles in the driving rain as the mare fights to take the bit.

The wind is howling violently as her mount reluctantly submits.

Lighting cracks the darkness with a sharp and blinding light.

Freezing that moment of terror, as she pulls the cinch up tight.

One foot up in the stirrup, she mounts the cold, wet seat.

Her desire to help unbending, damn to the demise that she may meet.

Her duty is to find him, her own safety she doesn’t care.

She spares neither horse nor nerve, not knowing how he’s faired.

She pulls the reins and wheels the horse, then spurs the frightened mare.

Her slicker’s trailing in the wind, beating the fringed air

Her shouts are cut and muffled as they vanish into the storm.

The only witness to this courage is the cabin safe and warm.

As morning breaks across the rugged splendor of the gray and granite cliffs

The sun sparkles on the crystal waters of a stream, so clear and swift.

A hawk, silhouetted against a pale blue sky, on gentle wing now glides

Circling easily above the rocky crags where evil still lurks and hides.

The cabins long abandoned and the barn has fallen down.

The question of whatever happened, long forgot by those in town.

So many years of seasons, of heat and frozen snow

The Sierra’s still hold the secret that no mortal shall ever know.

Her ghost still rides the mountain, though their bones are bleached and strewn

He waits for her arrival, on the dark side of the moon.

-END-

The Thunder Mug

R.S. Gregory

Now most of us have sat a privy.

Likened to the San-O-Let.

Those often-nasty water closets

Used only with urgent regret.

But how many still remember

The one “out behind the house”?

The one that was our only choice

When nature fussed and groused.

A well-worn path that led the way

To where it stood there all alone.

For years it was the way of life

Around most any country home.

Usually built of old used wood

And tall and thin in shape.

There it stood solitarily

Adorning the far landscape.

With tin and tar upon the roof

And a half moon for a vent.

A hole cut in the wooden seat

A place of quite content.

Some were fancy and quite upscale

Their use they would invite.

With matching paint and curtains,

Even rugs and wired lights.

Others were just for function

With a budget kept in mind

They lacked any creature comforts

And were anything but refined.

Most, they had some catalogs

Setting there on the shelf.

From Penny’s, Sears or Monkey Wards

You were free to help yourself.

Late at night in the winters cold

The temps were far below,

You’d need a lamp to fight the dark

And ford the drifts and snow.

You would have to wake completely up

And dress yourself alone.

Boots and hats and scrafs and gloves,

Still freezing to the bone.

Even if you made it

And you were still naturally inclined,

On that chilled and ice-cold seat,

You froze your own behind.

So, no one with their sanity

Would venture out in that storm.

We would stay inside and snuggled tight

And continue keeping warm.

Then, in the middle of the night

When nature gave a tug

You shuffled to the corner

And found the thunder mug.

Now as you hear this story

There are those we sit among

Who still remember using

That old white and dented mug!

Each night Granny would step outside

And fill it with some snow.

Then set it in the corner,

Ready, for when you had to go.

It required you took a deep seat,

It was built so short and low.

As for pride and modesty,

Well, you learned to let that go.

There you were, all hunched up

In the middle of the floor.

Setting like Mother Carey’s hen

Humbled to your core.

The operation was quite simple.

There was no handle- a flusher for

When done, you just clanked the lid on

And left’er setting on the floor.

Then early the next morning

When it was still near three below

There was but a single set of tracks

Through the freshly fallen snow

Granny made the trip out back

Just like a deliveryman

She headed for the outhouse

Lugging that old soiled and metal can.

At her side she carried it.

Shuffling to and fro.

Her arm stuck out for balance

The can, leaving divots in the snow.

She made her way to the privy

Barley keeping warm.

Empting the nightly contents

While taking shelter from the storm.

Then back to the house she made her way

Her burden somewhat lighter

Where the kettle hissed and steamed

And she rinsed it with clean and boiling water.

Then setting on a clean white towel

Once again it found its home

Silently awaiting its humble duty

This white, majestic throne.

So, let’s offer up a toast,

As we sit atop this steed

This vessel of chipped white porcelain

A true friend when we’re in need.

And let’s not forget our granny,

For there really is no doubt,

Without all her good efforts

In the dark we’d all been trekking out.

On many a stormy winters night

In our house all warm and snug.

We listened to the storms roll through,

While someone sat the Thunder Mug.