First House on the Left  

Doc was his name, but nobody knew why,
It had always just been that way.
Farm Born, cradle to grave, he loved the land.
Slave cabin right behind the big house  
Where hired hands might lay over  during
Lambing, calving and tobacco stripping.
Four generations right there in the big
House, two story, green roof, big porch.  

Nancy came there as a bride, fancy ways,
Poor fit for Doc, but they made it work.
Some women will bend and not break or run
And Doc had a twinkle and a bit of fun in him  

Enough to take the edge off her priss and fuss.
Two kids, one like him, one like her, the boy
Moved in across the road at his bride taking Time.
Pretty little thing Minnesota born.  

The two men farmed as well as any cropping
Up and down that road. Doc took off to town
To sit with the men at the warehouse during
Tobacco sales. The tales he could tell and did.  

 He took a coughing fit now and then, laughed
At himself. Said same thing happened to his Pap
And he lasted past it. “I will, too.” Lasting past
It was his best wish, but time came in spite of

Men who were called Doc for real. Baby
Girl of Billy’s, across the road would run
Away to walk with Doc, and woke one night
And there he was, kinda soft sitting in the air.
 
It was said he called her name, she reached for him
As her dream slipped out the door. Next morning
Nancy touched his face, and her scream lurched  
Down the road and neighbors came, Billy, too.
 
Baby girl grew up knowing her Doc had come
To say goodbye. Some were hateful and said
It was a made up child’s tale. Yet all down Colville
Colville road most of us believed, Knowing well 
That’s Just how Doc would have done it.