Sandman's Journal

Here's a poem Grandpa wrote:

Wolf Creek, 1929

I knew a place that never had
Electricity or plumbing
Or paint or pretty curtains
Just two homestead shacks nailed together
Banked with tarpaper and fragrant manure

It was home to three boys and a man
Unchurched but reverent of God
Pride was there, pride in honesty,
A day’s work, a well-cleaned corral,
A well-topped haystack, a good-broke horse
A perfect school attendance record,
The winning of a spelling bee.

It lacked a woman and mourned this lack
Sometimes with quiet tears on quiet and lonely nights.
The eldest boy said to the youngest,
“It’s not a mark of manhood to feel sorry for oneself”

And thus it was resolved and
Toughness woven with the fabric cut to Man’s measure.
Those long, cruel Depression years,
Empty and sterile to some, but not to us!

--Bob Sand