We had water enough for play in furrows
with scraps of wood, leaves for sails,
regattas on rivers pumped from underground.
All the magic that children take for granted
swirled to the hum of electricity, twenty-horse
pumps like Buddhas squat in orchard rows
my father farmed for wagonloads of fruit
ripe for the rail, packed by women’s hands
for the road on diesel trucks to distant places.
His silhouette crosses deep within vineyard rows,
early morning, late afternoon, hoe in hand—
his pirate’s cutlass, swashbuckling open-topped
overshoes—checking water, irrigating grapes
at seventy, or so I think at sixty-eight, knowing
now what drew him to the earth he farmed.
very nice eulogy for your father . . . Bravo!
LikeLiked by 1 person
In my 40s, I never understood why he was still irrigating when he could have hired someone to do it.
LikeLike
My grandparents farmed and I remember with joy the time we spent on the farm as children. Of course, we had all the fun and not all the hard work, but we were close to the earth and life there.
janet
LikeLiked by 1 person
I realize I’m getting older, but perhaps it is the hard work and dirt this culture of ours is missing.
LikeLike
I sometimes wonder the same thing, John. So many jobs have no connection with the earth and have no idea how difficult the life is that provides our food and more.
LikeLike
Love this one, John. You paint a wonderful word picture.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. A combination of images that keep coming back to me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
beautiful
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Maureen.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Your father as the pirate on your imagined river–very nice.
LikeLiked by 1 person
The black, buckle-type overshoes he never buckled, open at the top, his pants tucked in, his silhouette always a pirate.
LikeLiked by 1 person
We see you all sharp and clear, 60 years ago. Another vivid slice of life saved and shared. Thank you.
LikeLike