1. The Mountain of Youth
2. RITE for Ann and Rich
3. Easter Flowers for Aunt Delean
4. Granddaughter of the Hill
This is only a hill with a path through the woods,
and it puts on a show every day of the year.
Thirty minutes a day is all that it takes.
You can watch or dream while you're there.
You can go any time of the day that you like,
but I like the show at dawn.
Thirty minutes you say "I could dream in my chair,"
but let me tell you the truth.
This is only a hill with a path through the woods,
but it could be your "MOUNTAIN OF YOUTH."
This path through the woods welcomes all who may come;
the young or the young at heart.
But, if you expect miracles you can't just sit there,
you must do your part.
The round trip is only a mile and a half,
but beginners may not go all the way.
You should learn all the actors; they live there you know;
The trees, the flowers, the insects, the animals, the birds.
When the mile and a half becomes a habit,
and you learn all the actors,
you will slowly begin to realize:
Your aches and pains - most have vanished,
Your troubles are smaller,
You have learned to laugh at life's "curves."
When you learn you must serve and not sit there,
learn to laugh and not cry.
You're on the way to learning God's truths.
It is then that you find this is not just a hill,
This is "YOUR MOUNTAIN OF YOUTH."
Walter C. Scott
Copyright 1987
published June 17, 1987
Meade County Messenger
It was more than the walk
on a cold day, up the hill
and into the woods
this first spring
since the old man passed away.
The high color in your cheeks
your mama's
a wool bandana tied
under your chin,
eyes the shade of new denim
your daddy's - and as bright as the sky
at the crest of Scott Hill
alight from within
you
the next generation
stepping onto this land
into time
your own
here and now
loving yes
walking yes
breathing yes
planting yes
115 white pine
along the ridge and into the woods
this day yes, for all days
The Scott Hill Farm. Today
you are Yes.
Barbara Foote, Copyright 1998
EASTER FLOWERS FOR AUNT DELEAN
For Ann, Martha and Jess
I'd like to think he planted them for her
on a golden afternoon in late September where he knew she would see them the following March as she stood at the sink, elbow-deep in hot suds , washing out the the milk pail and strainer she would peer into the early morning
every year their path would grow
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Aunt Delean, braids wound into a crown,
you grew armloads of giant zinnias and a cellar full of food season after season decade after decade, treked morning and evening from house to barn and barn to house, milk buckets in hand beside your husband, fixed his lunch, then laid down in the blue bedroom one April noon, and peacefully died - your salad served two days later at the wake you pieced quilts for all the children and grandchildren-one remains where your hands left it in the frame suspended on the ceiling and you gave to newlyweds a set of stainless steel mixing bowls with a basket of your jams and jellies wondering if it was "hokey"- |
Barbara Foote, Copyright 1998
Granddaughter of the Hill
For Carol
As if emerging from the pages
of an English novel
she fairly whirled
a strawberries-and-cream complexion
flushed in the early morning light.
From under a wide-brimmed straw
a torrent of auburn and amber
poured in waves
to the center of her back.
She was dressed for the hill
in jeans and light cotton
and as she turned she abruptly asked, "Where
are the walking sticks?" Suddenly
I was reminded of the reverie
of young girls
trying on appearances, gauging
a look, and I knew
I stood in the presence
of a waking dream.
"Over there," I said, gesturing
to toward the corner, where three sticks
rested beside the open door, and I smiled
to apologize for my intrusion. "Will Molly go?"
she asked of the golden dog napping
on the porch outside the door. "I am sure
she would like to be asked,"
I assured her. And she was gone
as I stood in the kitchen imagining
her grandmother as a young bride
transplanting herself, from
Eastern Kentucky to this hill farm
step by step, on foot and
on horseback -
her grandfather
walking his "mountain of youth"
into his eighth decade, until
after she died, and a stroke
rendered the hill to his imagination
and now
in the dawn
of an August morning
a young girl
stepping
into continuance.
Barbara Foote, Copyright 1998