The Old Home Place

"The Old Home Place" where I grew up as a boy,
Is a place filled with memories and sometimes with joy;
Times were hard and we had to work in the fields,
Daddy's old straw hat was his only sun shield.

I've played in these yards many a day,
And at sunset I can still hear my Mother say;
"Time to come in and get ready for bed,
Say your prayers now, when you lay down your head.

At the table the next morning, we'd all sit around,
Some with a smile and some with a frown;
Big biscuits would always be in the oven,
And I guess I could've eaten a baker's dozen.

For supper...the vegetables that had been grown in the fields,
And hot corn bread made from a sack of meal;
Corn, okra, beans and sliced tomatoes,
And even a helping of mashed potatoes.

In the summer, our chores we'd all have to do,
Each one his own and when we were through;
Basketball and baseball in the yard I would play,
With cousins and friends I still see today.

The old rock house he built with his hands,
Laying each stone and mixing the sand;
The old barn out back held all of his tools,
"Lock it up when you're finished," now that was the rule.

In front of the old barn my Daddy would haul,
Dirt to plant tomatoes vines...enough to feed us all;
Each side of the driveway, Mama's rose bushes would be,
And other pretty flowers for all to see.

The climbing rose was Mother's favorite flower,
And Daddy would sit in his rocker many an hours;
Enjoying the morning and noon time sun,
Thinking of things past and those yet to come.

"The Old Home Place" will soon be torn down,
We'll think of it always as we go through the town;
A part of souls will reside there forever,
As we think of days past and being together.

Mama and Daddy now rest with Him,
But the memories of our childhood will never grow dim;
We'll all be together in God's home He's provided,
Lead down the road on which they have gently guided.

What a wonderful day to see them again,
To tell them of things done and where we have been;
Children and grandchildren will gather 'round,
Until then they will be in His arms safe and sound.

Written by Shirley Jean Pickens©
Dedicated to my wonderful husband, James


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