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Pine-Cone and Acorn

For Father

We piled the acorns high up over the ridge.  Gathered the green pine-cone.                                                 

Dad sat with Ole Ele crappie fishing.  We had no idea of hours. 

But we hated the sticky feel of the bug repellant.  It made our throats dry as

we fetched wood in the thickets.  We barely noticed words until we saw

the grown-ups tell tall tales.  Just a bunch of country folk, Dad said, good ole guys.

They cussed more than Dad.  Said aint and greeeight. 

We could only reckon what Nana Gerry said Aint’s not in the dictionary.

At the campfire everything became somehow more solid.  Sweet baked beans

in cans that we heated over a barbed metal grill.  Pale weenies turned charcoal.

Flaming marshmallows that would scorch your tongue.  The older boys

gathered themselves and competed for respect.  They offered

cuss words and talk of girls.  Dad let us smoke sweet cigars.

We even imagined ourselves like Indian warriors and our last name—

no doubt from cartoons and associations.  We came closer to that 

in our talk of Slew Foot and ghosts.