The Saga Of Grandpa Miller

A true story of my husbands's Grandfather. Come meet Granville Miller

The Saga of Grandpa Miller Tucked away in the Kentucky hills Back in the days we now call old Lived a man named Granville Miller His story now to be told It is the story passed from a Mother Of her Father ~ To her Son So many years now have come and gone Since this story first begun I record now in part A bit of my Husband's family history To be passed on in years to come Granville was A very tall and lanky man His eyesight poorly blessed Fashion he had no need for He owned only one Sunday best Known for his bluegrass music That rang throughout the hills His banjo his constant companion It is with our family still A leader in his community He always was the one That would reach into his pocket To find a way to help someone He would become the father Of five daughters Six boys were to become his sons With so many hungry mouths to feed His task was not an easy one In the hills of his Kentucky home He owned the General Store His neighbors came to buy his wares And as soon seen ~ a little more I can somehow see a picture Of his store within those hills Who knows In the mountains of Kentucky It may be standing still Along far wall I envision sacks of grain Some powder and a few guns Some shelves holding cans made by his hands Home-made toys for little ones Wood planked floors With cracks galore That saw the ground below Bolts of material Of a modest print For the ladies hands to sew It seemes that Granville gave away Much more than he sold He never turned away a family Once their story he had been told He bartered some and ran a tab Which was the custom of the day Times were hard for everyone So he was seldom paid He had to feed his family He did the best he could Within the poverty of his day The 'living' wasn't good Then came the days of prohibition Had the battle somehow been won Surely far within the hills of Kentucky Revenuer's would not come They would be looking for the runners That delivered from the stills They wouldn't look for a family man With a country store within the hills So he added to his little store A room guarded from the back He didn't run the moonshine But that is all he lacked Within that room in mason jars He sold another ware ~ Jars of homemade White Lightening Its quality uncompared Mountain men and whiskey A true Hillbilly's dream They came from afar to take the jars All was well it seemed This added bit of extra change Helped keep his family fed But he knew the chances he was taking Each night when he climbed into his bed He prayed to God Almighty For him to somehow understand The only thing he could think to do To provide a little extra for his family clan They came with guns and handcuffs Just as he feared they would one day Who supplied his moonshine? Of course he wouldn't say Just a simple little storefront When the law stopped by that day They found the room quite easily Someone had given him away Two years he spent in prison Away from his family and his home The gentle giant of the mountains Sat in prison all alone His only crime ~ The whiskey Just a little of the law outside In the absence of his banjo The mountains truly cried He returned to raise his family Mostly still within those hills His General Store held nothing more Than groceries and good will Times had become a little easier With the passing of the years And he figured God had spoken Making his message very clear He was the grandfather Of many grandchildren When I met this charming man His age showed upon his rugged face But still strong were the musician's hands Upon his knee he placed my son The son of his daughter's child My son far too young to realize That upon him God had smiled My son's father knew the blessing He remembered back to when he was young The banjo played as in olden days But Granville now played for two grandsons Three generations sat before me One held his banjo One held his guitar One sat too young to realize Generations wonderous star So many years behind him now I wondered of the man That now so gently held my son Within his withered hands I was told he owned some fishing lakes A few houses bought and sold This aging man with banjo still in hand Had riches yet fortold So for you Dear Grandpa Miller I record this for your grandson To tell but just some of your story To be passed on to our generations to come Ninety-eight years upon this earth To us you are no more But I bet in the halls of heaven You run the General Store View All My Poems Feedback Welcomed   AspiringAngel Old Time Religion, Give Me Oil In My Lamp - Smokey Mountain Hymns -           The Saga Of Grandpa Miller

Author's Note

Come meet Grandpa Miller ...

Reviews

[Rain]

What a fascinating man. My grandparents were from FlatGap, Ken. I know about the general store. It actually had a pickle barrel.lol
They could have made a movie of Grandpa Miller. Rain..

[Samuel Dickens]

It all sounds familiar to me, Lesa. My father, born in 1908, lived that same kind of life when he was young. He and his two brothers made moonshine whiskey. Even I, as a teenager, occasionally found some white lightning for sale. Brings back memories, it does.

[darkgurl]

Oh! My such a emotional filled write full of love and comapssion, Dear this is a most heartfelt write I have ever read, I like this alot...Kim