Golden Hours
Lois Anne Polizzi
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© Copyright 2012 Lois Anne Polizzi.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
Printed in the United States of America.
isbn: 978-1-4669-0049-3 (sc)
isbn: 978-1-4669-0050-9 (hc)
isbn: 978-1-4669-0051-6 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011918505
Trafford rev. 01/06/2012
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Contents
Golden Hours
Mary Elizabeth Sandy Duffy
Indian Summer
Teacher
Love Song
The Doll
Mother
Dad
The Wino
Ode to a Trucker’s Wife
Those Oldies but Goodies
Winter Storm
Night
Please Talk To Me
Home
Flowers
Lessons From My Younger Days
(a Song)
Pray for the Children
Old Age
A Memorial Day Remembered
Reflections
The Laundromat
The Soldier
At Concord Bridge
I Lit a Candle For You
The Walk
Michele
White Church by the Side of the Road
My Time
Fly Catcher
Old Brown Dog
Beauty
Duffy
Prologue
A Love Unspoken
Bonnie
It’s Not for Us to Know
Tea
Dear Steve
Christmas 1993
Christmas 1994
Christmas 1995
Christmas 2000
Christmas 2003
Guardian Angel
Thank You Lord
Golden Hours
Golden hours of childhood past;
they could not forever last.
Could we but then had known
what their seeds would be when grown?
Would we have chosen with more care
those tiny seedlets planted there?
Sewn only seeds of love and truth,
their blossoms gathered in our youth?
Sunshine not sorrow for those years.
Not clouds of bitterness and pain, and tears.
Not blasted hopes and shattered dreams.
Life’s future bright; not dark and gray as seemed.
But alas, why sigh in our regret?
There’s time to sew and gather yet!
Flowers from seedlets we might yet sew;
blossoms of kindness, love and trust to grow.
Glowing beautiful, radiant and bright;
reflecting the glory of God’s sunlight.
Our lives guided by His love and power
will find that future “golden Hour”.
Mary Sandy Duffy
(circa 1930)
Mary Elizabeth Sandy Duffy
April 1904 – April 1933
There is no one left today who can share the memory of that late morning, when she was laid to rest beside her ancestors; the Sandys, Washingtons, Spaders, Lambs, etc. in the little cemetery at Spader’s Lutheran Church, nestled on a country hill top in rural Mt. Crawford, Virginia. I sometimes wonder if it was a sunny spring day to perhaps lift the spirits, or mock the sorrow of those who gathered around the gaping wound that would receive the earthly remains of one so cherished. Or, if a soft rain fell; the droplets tapping on black umbrellas meant to comfort those who mourned. That God himself understood their sorrow and wept too.
Her aging parents looking even older then their sixty some years, standing shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps holding hands and biting quivering lips in a vain effort to keep from crying openly. Each silently remembering the first time they saw her tiny face and held her in their arms. Perhaps they saw her as their miracle child, having been born to them seven years after their only son.
They may have recalled a dutiful daughter, but not always happy with the decisions forced upon her by their good intentions. She was musically inclined, but music was not her heart’s desire. Yet, to please them, she excelled in piano and voice; receiving honors from her college upon graduation. For a brief time after college, she taught both. A hopeless romantic, she loved poetry and began writing her own.
They accepted her marriage, but were not pleased that she had chosen an auto mechanic from the city (Washington, DC). It pleased them even less that she and her new husband of Irish decent and a northerner, chose not the comfort and gentility of the small farming community where she had been raised, but chose instead to lived in the city 90 miles away; a fair distance at that time.
Before the Crash of 1929, she bore them two grandchildren, both sons. From 1929 to 1932, she gave them two more, another son and the last, a daughter. Times were tough in the city, yet the young family was sustained greatly by the vegetables, fruits and meats that came from her parents’ farm.
One April morning in 1933, it was told she awoke with stomach pains. In the afternoon, they had become severe enough that immediate medical attention was required, and she was taken to the hospital. Sometime in the night she passed away. In that moment, a chain of events began to unfold that would forever alter the lives of her husband, her parents, her brother and his family, and others; most of all her four young children. They would be split up amongst family members. Some would love them; others would view them merely as familial obligations.
Each child would learn early in life to find his and her own way. The roads they chose were hard, challenging, rewarding, and there was also heartbreak. Only one remains; her oldest son. While love is not always remembered, it can still be felt. I know my uncle has no doubt that their mother in this life loved them all with a love so intense, that somehow it would see them through all the hardships of their lives.
Although I never knew my Grandmother, she influenced my life greatly. Because I was told she sang, I wanted to sing too. Because she wrote poetry, I wanted to do the same. Whether they were gifts she passed on to me, I can’t honestly say. I learned long ago that such talents are subjective to those who have heard me sing, or read my verses. It is my hope that those of you who read the following pages come to know me a little better, as that’s what poetry is; a window into the heart, mind and soul of the writer. My Grandmother’s work was never published. Of the poems she penned, ‘Golden Hours’ I believe, was one of her best. It seems only fitting that the title of my book, and the first poem in it should be hers.
This book is dedicated in loving memory to my parents
Williard W. Williams
1925 – 1988
Betty Duffy Williams
1932 – 2005
and
Joseph James Polizzi, Jr.
1948 – 2002
Bel
oved husband to Lois
Cherished son, brother and friend
Love is eternal.
Indian Summer
Sometimes in mid October
when the leaves are red and gold,
we marvel how the autumn breeze
is not yet laced with cold.
The crops have all been harvested
and pumpkins wait for winter’s frost.
It seems as if the old north wind
has somehow gotten lost!
Folks call it Indian Summer
when autumn days are warm.
The leaves have not yet fallen
and baskets filled with corn.
There are jugs of apple cider being
sold at roadside stands,
and farmers who for once can say
they’ve time upon their hands.
The geese flew south some weeks before
and school has since begun.
large bails of hay turn brown beneath
a waning crimson sun.
Like sitting at an open hearth
before a fire’s glow;
reflecting on a season’s past,
awaiting ice and snow.
Teacher
Mother stood by me; my hand in hers
that morning so long, long ago.
My oxfords were new and so was the Dale Evans
lunch box I carried in tow.
With tears in my eyes, I waved through the window
as the school bus drove me away.
And the world I had come from grew ever so bigger
when I walked in her classroom that day.
Frightened and shy, I cowered from all of
the other children there.
When she called out my name, all I could do was look
up at her sweet face and stare.
As autumn winds blew, tossing leaves like feathers that
eventually fell back as snow,
confidence started to grow.
With patience and love second only to Mother’s, she
guided my footsteps each day;
Down that pathway of knowledge, towards adventures untold
and at noontime we’d go out to play.
With each lesson she taught, each word that she uttered
was for one single purpose in mind.
That when we stepped out in the world on our own,
we would better our lives and our time.
No other soul, save God, Mother and Dad would
influence my future as she.
Her gift was herself. My “Thank you” to her
was the person I grew up to be.
Love Song
Love is when he’s really down
and you hold out your hand.
Love is not to say a word
but he will understand.
Love is something gentle
in a world gone very wild.
You see love in a father’s face
as he holds his new born child.
Love is sharing all you have
when really you have not.
It’s seeing through each
other’s faults,
and there may be quite a lot.
Love is not doing for yourself,
but doing best for him.
And love is that one shining hope
when other hopes grow dim.
The Doll
I used to take you for long rides
in my pink baby carriage.
My sister played the part as Dad.
We made a perfect marriage.
I’d hold you in my arms each night
pretending you would cry.
I’d rock you till you fell asleep,
then snug beside me you would lie.
And when the proper age had come,
in a shoe box with a lid,
my mother bore you fast away
into the attic safely hid.
I took the children to the house,
to see my folks one day.
Alone I climbed the attic stairs
into my childhood where I’d play.
And there I found the old shoe box;
peeked in to find you there.
I held you in my arms again
and rocked you in my chair.
Suddenly it made me sad,
you lying there so small.
In all the years while I had changed,
you didn’t change at all.
My childhood’s just a memory now.
The life I gave you is no more.
I crept down from the attic
and for the last time,
closed the door.
Mother
First up every morning, she walks softly down the hall,
avoiding that one squeaky stair so as not to wake us all.
But I’m awake to hear her as she makes her way about,
giving the dog some loving words before she lets him out.
I can hear the kitchen sink run as she fills the coffee pot;
the rattle on the burner when it’s finally boiling hot.
The flip-flop of her slippers across the kitchen floor,
to let back in our whimpering pet who’s been
scratching at the door.
Then there is the silence, and I know she’s settled down,
to a cigarette, her coffee and a magazine she’s found.
Letting her alone awhile, I finally get up;
On seeing me she smiles and
says “Good Morning”, every time.
We’ll sit and talk of family, of dreams both hers and mine.
Though I’m on my own now, both working girl and wife,
those morning sounds my mother made,
I’ll hear throughout my life.
The sounds of love and caring,
the kind not spoken of in words.
Those footsteps softly on the stairs will be forever hers.
Dad
As a little girl I placed you on a pedestal so tall.
In growing up, discovered you were human after all!
It confused me just a little finding parents make mistakes,
and those rocks we build our dreams upon aren’t free
from cracks or breaks.
But with all your human failings (perfect mortals are but few),
the ones who shared my hardest times
were always Mom and you.
You tried not to interfere too much, but quietly stood by.
Your unconditional love gave me the strength to always try.
I remember after surgery once and
not awake enough to care,
I could barely make out where I was,
but saw you sitting there.
Teaching me to write is not a time that I’ll forget.
It’s hard to be right handed and teach a daughter who is left!
There were times I thought I hated you, finding your
discipline too tough;
but it’s given me true guidance in a world that’s often rough.
Your hair’s now salt and pepper; your face is worn and tan.
The years have aged the body of once a
strong and youthful man.
But your smile will always be the same and the voice
I’ve always known,
which at times I should have list
ened to,
but chose to hear my own.
With your help I’ve grown to womanhood, but my heart
is sometimes sad.
It wasn’t often growing up, I said “I love you, Dad.”
The Wino
He sat hunched in a corner
outside a run down tenement flat.
The cold bit through his shabby cloths as
the wind blew at his cap.
His stubbled face was hollow.
To breath he labored hard.
A mirror of life’s failures
that can leave a body scarred.
He looked toward me with
glazed blue eyes.
I thought he might be blind.
And then he begged,
“A quarter Miss?”
His breath was stale with wine.
I gave him all the change I had
and left him in the night.
I tried in vain to ward away
the memory of his sight.
In the following morning’s paper
in a place obscure I read,
of an old man in an alley
some children had found dead.
I returned again that evening
to that same old tenement lot,
and found the empty bottle
left by a man that life forgot.
Ode to a Trucker’s Wife
Late at night his rig rolls in;
twelve tons of moving steel.
His buddy’s sleeping in the bunk,
her husband’s at the wheel.
She sits and watches him climb down;