My Grandfather’s Gardens by Richard Weaver

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He drove all his cars the same way he plowed

with a slow-witted mule: his way was the way. The only way.

Do it or be damned. (Not his language) Shift or be damned.

Grind if you like, but eventually there was no choice.

Muscle and will trumped iron in spades.

Many cars later, after a fleet of mule-powered vehicles

had ground to an irreparable stop at his hands,

and under his feet, a 1963 Plymouth Reliant, push-button

drive shifter, rolled off the assembly line. My wise

Aunt & Uncle bought him what was the last car he needed.

Before that my 3 siblings and I rode thrilled in the front

or back seat; in a rare show of faith we shared the coveted

shotgun position. The roughened sound of asphalt never changed

through the open windows, grinding the air as we swept past,

accentuating the smell of rain coming or dead possum.

Or the temptation of honeysuckle in season. The smoky

sensations of muscadines or scuppernongs.

Air conditioning was not an option. A lesson we learned early,

riding from Dallas the 600 miles to my grandparent’s house

in my parent’s Buick Le Sabre, 6 of us elbow to elbow, the road

and air streaming in ways our engineer father might explain – fluid flow

and boundary layers, our hands cupped outside the window,

air pressure inside the car lower than outside, classic Venturi effect.

My grandfather’s home garden fallow, and the old farm now tended

by a sharecropper, the farmhouse reduce to scavenged handmade nails,

and rough-hewn planks, he would talk about his neighbors,

the many miles of neighbors. Each one a Mister or a Mrs.

Those who raised the best butter beans, tomatoes,

muscadines or scuppernongs, who had the freshest eggs

or best summer squash, the best honey with comb

or without. Whose watermelons were worthiest, whose peaches

were juicy and cantaloupes ripest. He sought these things

for 93 years. Strong in that surety, in the memory

and confidence of his hands on the white-moon of the wheel.

Free Verse

Poetry / The Weekly

Weaver, Richard
The author hopes to one day again volunteer with the Maryland Book Bank, and return as writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. A few recent pubs include: Mad Swirl, Misfit, Umbrella Factory, New Orleans Review, Triggerfish, & Spank the carp. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992). He also provided the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars, performed 4 times to date. He remains one of the founders and former Poetry Editor of the Black Warrior Review. Latterly, his 175th prose poem was published.

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My Grandfather’s Gardens by Richard Weaver

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