Buttons and the Guardian of the Hill
When I discovered last week that November 16th is Button Day, supposedly founded back in 1938 by the National Button Society (yes, there really is such an organization), I knew it was the perfect time to share this particular poem about my grandmother’s house and its surroundings. You’ll understand once you’ve read it.
As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t claim to be a poet (to see what I typically write, visit my home page). Nevertheless, despite its amateur rhyme scheme, I hope that you enjoy it.
Tall and stately, painted first green, then brown;
Stands the guardian of the hill in the heart of town.
The river rushes past, never time to slow;
The trains clack by, whistling hello.
The road curves sharply, cars slowly descend its bend;
Truck gears groan and engines rev, trying to ascend.
The backyard spring gently splashes;
Dusk gives way as a firefly flashes.
Welcoming and airy, facing west,
This two-story home offers comfort and rest.
Walk-in pantry with half-door entry;
Double French doors provide a sanctuary.
An antique desk with a large green blotter,
A carved coo-coo clock that chimes every hour.
The China hutch features plates with yellow flowers;
The gun cabinet displays tobacco and male power.
Stately curved banister and plastic stair treads,
Lead to creaking floorboards and crocheted bedspreads.
Wind-up figurines, doilies, and perfume;
Tilt-in windows, twin beds in a large guest room.
Big Band plays nightly on the AM dial;
An inviting rocking chair causes the Lady to smile.
The home is host to family dinners and parties,
After-practice hangouts and overnight memories.
When its beloved Lady passed, it sighed in sadness yet hoped anew;
A bed and breakfast, perhaps, would bring adults and children, too.
Alas, today it sits quiet and lonely;
A button museum by reservation only.
I’d love to know your thoughts! Feel free to share them in the comments.
P.S. In case you’re wondering, yes, my grandmother’s house was indeed turned into a button museum.
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