Dry Holler Kentucky

I am a poet but don't know it, yet my feet show it. They are Long Fellows.

Try to remember back to the fifties.

There were no Interstates then,

Highways were mostly two lanes,

Winding through the countryside and small towns.

 

An old station wagon,

Inched slowly along,

It seemed oblivious to the path it followed,

Seeming to know its destination.

 

The driver was a lad barely in his teens,

Seated by his side an old man,

Great Grandfather and Great Grandson.

One keeping a promise, the other making it possible.

 

They turned onto a gravel road,

Barely wide enough for two cars to pass.

After a short distance,

It became nothing more than a cow track.

 

At long last they turned onto a creek bed.

Finally when the wagon could go no farther,

They got out and walked,

Without a path the old man knew the way.

 

The old man spoke now.

Remembering how they had taken him to the poor farm.

Forced to leave his precious farm.

"Too old to stay here." They said.

 

He pointed to an oblong stone.

Resting on the bank of the creek.

"That is where the house stood.

All that is left is the hearth stone."

 

"I planted that apple tree and those pines.

Cleared the benchs all the way to the ridge.

Raised corn for the animals,

Your mother loved those apples, I loved the land."

 

He lowered his long, lanky frame to one knee,

And to make his point,

He kissed it,

As a man would kiss a long lost love.

 

Later the lad stumbled and skinned his knee.

The old man helped him to his feet,

And rubbed the dirt he loved so much on it.

Speaking with reverence he said,

 

"You have this dirt in your blood,

And will never be happy any where else,"

Wise words from a wise man.

I have since lived in many places.

 

I have never found a place,

That could give solace to my soul.

The old place has been sold for Judas' gold,

But Dry Holler is in my blood and will always be my home.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

"If I cannot live on Dry Holler, I can live any place.
If I can live on Dry Holler, I cannot live any place else."

Todd Fyffe 1857-1963 RIP

I am the Great Grandson. The old man was my Great Grandfather.

Reviews

[Susie Q]

A very special poem that needed to be told so your son will know about his roots & his great-great grandfather & his passion for his Kentucy home. This was written straight from the heart. I know you are happy this is one promise you kept.

[emmajoy]

This has the ring of a great short story writer .. maybe Jack London, maybe another writer but, fact is - you wrote the piece and it has real heart, yours. The poem comes from experience felt and memories recalled, to be able to transmit those to other people takes a very special skill.

Great ..

[Kimberly]

Gorgeous poem, Frank, and perfectly nostalgic. This is one of my favorites.

[Butterflymom]

This is absolutely awesome. I will say that the mountains, hollers, and creek beds all through Ky, and the appalachian mountains are close to sacred, and the "dirt IS in our blood". The people's that settled there had grit in their guts, and were tough as hell. If you get really quiet on a sunny day you can hear our ancestors singing there. Thank you so much for this beautiful and heartfelt piece.

[GentleBreeze]

I must say for one you remind me of someone.. I cant quite put my finger on It.. But my children loved him very much.. Though he only visited once a year. He left quite an impression on them. Lol! You take me back to stories my grandfather used to tell us when we were young. Your poetry reminds me of him. Thank you for the walk down memory lane.. Those were the good old days...

~ GentleBreeze ~

[BABSIE BEE]

So passionate.....I love this soooo much. It,s a credit to you and your family. Well done and Thanks.
Babsie Bee xx

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

What a sad beautiful writing. A story very well told in poetry. Thank you so much for sharing. Debileah

[Jonathan Bryant Dean]

This is not the first version of this history that I have heard, but it right up there as the best. Keep writing to insure that the death of the family and the sale of the land does not mean the end of the memory.

I am the Great-great-grandson.

[Sabine]

so good to read this. Blessings, Sabine*