Sixth House on Right 

Two stories, started life rather plain,
Some prosperity for this Florence man
Led him to make a grand statement. 
Victorian lady the house turned out to be.

The assumed grandeur flustered Mamaw, 
Seemed to be out of line with plain, quiet
Hardworking folk. Yet her father prospered,
bottled spirits, won at cards, rode a fine horse,

Winked at the ladies, made them blush. 
In her day Ida was a looker like her mother. 
Where she got her farm bound notions
Seemed put on, forced, one or the other.

Her kitchen and side patio served as
A place to treat neighbors’ kids. Child
Love, that could have been her name. 
Adopted  an orphan grandchild. Saved him. 

All along the road, she and Pa reigned
Uncrowned, no courtseys, but folks knew
Somehow, an aura perhaps, just made it so.
He preached funerals, wore black, played

Croquet, invited the church. She never knew
What number for Sunday dinner  might show.
She mixed pans, skillets and pitchers full,
Served it out, like manna, food seemed to grow.

Sounds a life serene, full of blessing, not woe. 
Just what they let you see, that’s the show.
Bury more children than you raise, heart gives
Out too soon, her man buried in his black. 

Behind the windows she shed her tears
As life moved on in unmarked days. Fancy
Doors, floors, fireplace or chandeliers 
Did not stop the pain or fill the years.

Is this what she knew about Pa’s big notions
That kept her humble, kind and giving? 
Fate in the end will always tell the tale. 
Pride shall not defeat a windborn gale.