She Picked Pussy Willows

I think I finally finished this poem that I've been working on for a long time.

She Picked Pussy Willows

Not so much walking as ambling
Through chilly childhood Falls
And sultry Springs
To the one room country school,
Brunsweiler,
She plucked
Daisies, goldenrod, pussy willows,
For the favored few.

Graceful, tall,
Towheaded willow herself,
She soon steered the others
-Peggy, Glenda, Sue –
Along the way.

One November – she couldn’t resist –
She touched her tongue
To the schoolyard fence. Ouch! It stuck.
That was a project.

Once, she forgot her dress,
Wandered absentmindedly
Out of the clapboard house in her slip.

Otherwise, 1930’s farm life
In Northern Wisconsin
Was uneventful
As she grew.
Her best friend was Molly.
Her teachers liked her.
She was smart,
Responsible,
Reliable,
All they could ask for
In a student.

At home, she tended kids,
Dried dishes,
Milked cows,
Assisted Grandma with the laundry;
Hauled buckets of water
Up from the creek
To fill the tub;
Snagged the dripping garments
Crunching through the wringer,
Draped them on the line to dry.

At times she paused, dreaming,
Long legs dangling,
Swaying on the swing
Slung between the oaks
Behind the house.

Til teen summers.
Steered the John Deere for Grandpa,
Threshing neighbors’ wheat.

Then!
War. Spring. 15.
Handsome neighbor Tommy
Home on leave.
Oh, he was something!!

Fall. Grandma
Brought her to old Doc Bargholtz.
Baggy shirts, loose clothing
Hid me from the sisters.

December. I am early.
We are critical.
Upset reigns.

January. The Army lets Dad
Come home.

1998.
Auntie tells me their anniversary
Is in January, not April.
Mom says
It just never came up.

(Oh, how I love that willow pickin’ woman!!)

P.E. Ortman