Four old houses in our neighborhood have been bulldozed and burned by the owners. Three just this month. Our neighbors house was built after WWII with oak lumber he had cut down on his farm. It was solid and sturdy; constructed with love and care. It would have stood for many more years but after the last farmer who owned it retired from farming the house became a place for renters and then stood vacant. It had been vandalized and stripped of everything that could be sold as scrap.
I wrote the following poem after attending the auction of the last owners who lived in the little house.. They had cared for it with such love. I had no idea in a few years it would be no more.
The Auction
The old couple sat in their yard and slowly looked around
As they carried out the furniture and set it on the ground
The tables were lined up in rows filled with memories
Of their years together and the way it used to be
There were boxes full of treasures gathered through the years
Some bought smiles of good times while others brought on tears
An old picture of a dog that had hung on grandma’s wall
And mother’s little table that held the Bible in the hall
They set out her coal oil lamp and his knives and tools
Great grandpa’s shaving mug and two old milking stools
The auctioneer gave a talk and then began to sell
First the farm equipment and the old dinner bell
Then guns, books, dishes and grandma’s handmade quilts
The old kitchen cabinet and the chest that dad had built
Medals sold from World War I – a hero’s without a name
And who bought grandma’s rocking chair, it seems such a shame
Keepsakes of family histories that are now forever lost
Memories of generations worth more than what they cost
Dolls, toys and puzzles, accumulations of a life
These two had lived together as a husband and a wife
Their possessions now had dwindled to a precious few
As they held each other’s hand the end was now in view
The auctioneer gave his chant as the bidder raised his hand
The bidding was now over as they sold the house and land
Others now hold these legacies as they now end their race
In time will some remember that was Ol’ Man Thompson’s place.
Sue Ikerd
Copyright June 1, 2003 ©