That Little House

That Little House, oh! yes those were the good old days. We would gather
at our home, usually once a month on a Saturday evening, Grand-pap with
his fiddle, his brother, uncle Charlie,  my mother at the piano, her brother
my uncle Leonard on the banjo, daddy and mother would sing and my
sister and me and the rest of the family would tap our toes, and listen to
the most wonderful music ever created.  Well at least we though so.

I have often thought as I have entered into my golden years, what a
wonderful experience that was, and how barren our home would have
been without those sights and sounds over the years.

Grand-pap was as Irish as Patty's pig, so music was in his soul, the
same for my mother and her brother and my uncle Charlie.  I got
some of it also. Music we all loved, now the strings are quiet, the
piano sounds have ceased, the ringing laughter and singing voices
are forever gone, never again to ring
from the rafters. Stilled forever by the hand of God.

I know I will hear that music again, I don't know when, but I know
they are all waiting, probably tuning their instruments getting ready
to welcome us back home.

That Little House

Mother played piano and daddy sang,
and grandpa on his fiddle; did saw and twang,
Music rang like laughter from the rafters true
There never was a moment for us to be blue.

The music was mellow, then it went high
(to the Lord in heaven you could hear him sigh)!
Grandpa sawed that fiddle till the strings nearly broke
Then fired up his pipe for a quick little smoke!

He would tamp the tobacco in that crusty old bowl
Till it looked like a pound he had stuffed in the hole
But he never once puffed a draw in the house;
No, he’d slip outside; as quiet as a mouse.

And mother, in her quiet, unassuming way
Would continue on piano and quietly play
Till the smoke was over and grandpa back in
Then they’d start it all over, (you couldn’t help but grin).

Oh! That’s only one of the many days I recall,
For mother played summer, spring, winter and fall.
And daddy would sing every chance that he got;
And grandpa would fiddle and he’d fiddle a lot.

Russell R Cranmer Jr.

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