Pie Crust

PIE CRUST


She leans her elbows
on the kitchen counter,
watches every move.
I measure the ingredients
making my first pie crust.
"You're wasting stuff!"
With trembling hands,
I scoop flour,
sprinkle the floor.
Mama sweeps it up:
"The secret to cooking
is to clean as you go."
I nod, knead the dough,
roll it paper thin.
The shell tears
as I press it into the pan.
She pats my shoulder.
There is so much
to love in a torn shell.
            --Brenda Kay Ledford


This poem was printed in Come Sit at Our Table.


Members of Clay County, NC Eastern Star published this 80-page cookbook.  Each copy is $10.00.


For ordering information, contact:  Judy Patterson
jpatterson@clayschools.org

Homecoming

The Blue Ridge Mountains
unfurl royal blue ribbons,
ancient; carved from granite;
patchwork farms dot the cove.

Cornfields sway like ripples
in the honeysuckle wind,
Queen Anne's lace spins
doilies on the banks

welcoming me to the old homeplace.
Granddaddy's old grey barn
painted with a Lone Star quilt,
a raincrow performs the coda
to a love song.

The gravel road forks,
Hyatt-Mill Creek gurgles
over moss-covered rocks.
A footbridge shimmies,

Great-Granddaddy Dallas Matheson's
log cabin sheltered at the foot
of Shewbird Mountain;
I savor the sweet memories.
                   --Brenda Kay Ledford

Picnic

Beneath the maple tree,
Daddy cuts a watermelon,
Mama shakes salt.

In the Matheson Cove,
a Fourth of July picnic;
beneath the maple tree.

Ma and Grandaddy waiting,
Uncle Ralph roasting hotdogs;
Daddy cuts a watermelon.

The cousins spit seeds,
Harold swimming in Hyatt-Mill Creek;
Mama shakes salt.

The wagon trail
curving over mountain trails.
Fireworks erupt!
           --Brenda Kay Ledford

This poem was published in "West End Poets Newsletter," June/July/August 2016

Granddaddy Bob Ledford and Grandma Minnie Matheson Ledford.

Sacred Threads Quilt Exhibit

"A Poppy for Mother"

Karen Ponischil; Charlotte, NC

The Sacred Threads Travel Exhibit was displayed at the Good Shepherd Episcopal Church in Hayesville, NC in May, 2016.  The display of art quilts explore themes of joy, inspiration, spirituality, healing, grief, peace and brotherhood.  The exhibit is staged in Herndon, VA in odd numbered years.

                                                    "Aspen IV-Sunny Day"
                                           Dorothy Raymond; Loveland, CO

"War in Black & White"

Deb Cashatt & Kris Sazaki,

Cameron Park, CA

"Let Justice Roll Down Like Water"  Kit Tossmann; Louisville, KY

"Fiery Shield"

Marianne Williamson; Miami, FL

"Swan Song"

Sally Wright; Los Angeles, CA

"Hallelujah"

Jane Bachus; Paradis Valley, AZ

"Joy"

Judy Warner; Victor, NY

"Hope & Love"

Yvonne Porcella; Modesto, CA

Call of the Earth

Each spring the earth calls my name just like it beckoned my mother.  She could hardly wait to plant her vegetable garden each year.

Gardening.  I loathed the word.  To me it was nothing but hard, hot, back-breaking work.  What pleasure could you get from digging in the dirt?

Each summer my siblings and I worked in the garden.  We planted seeds, chopped down weeds, and picked the veggies.  We sat on the front porch stringing bushels of green beans, cutting corn off cobs, and snapping peas.  Sweat ran down our faces.  Work never ended on the farm.  Even at night I dreamed of stringing green beans.

I vowed when I grew up to never garden again.  Let someone else labor and grow the vegetables.  I would just buy some fresh veggies at a road-side stand.

Years passed and one spring I got the call.  A desire to get my hands in the dirt churned in my heart.  It was the deep-rooted longing of my ancestors to; yes, garden!

I bounded outside and drank in the beauty.  Jonquils spread churned butter on verdant grass.  Robins lifted praise songs, Bradford pear trees offered vanilla ice-cream cones, and minnows jumped in Hyatt-Mill Creek.

I grabbed my hoe and pounded the clay dirt until every bone in my body hurt.  Sweat soaked my blouse.  I rubbed my aching back and filled my lungs with the fragrance of wild roses.  Silence.

Now I knew how my mother and ancestors felt working the good earth.  I was revived, at peace with God, myself, and nature.  Gardening!  Oh, what a pleasure.
                                                                                                     --Brenda Kay Ledford

Now that spring is here
Now that the year's advanced to spring
And leaves grow large and long
Forget each sorry and rueful thing
Hearing the wild bird's song.
               --Byron Herbert Reece

Springtime Song

The robins twitter as they fly,
gems glitter on Hyatt-Mill Creek,
purple crocus pop up,
the year's at the spring.

Cotton clouds kiss azure skies,
mountains unfurl royal blue ribbons,
jonquils splash sunshine on banks,
the robins twitter as they fly.

Sound the flute!
The winter is past,
life bursts forth from earth's tomb,
gems glitter on Hyatt-Mill Creek.

The hillside's dew-pearled,
frogs croak on the pond,
there's joy in the mountains,
the year's at spring.
              --Brenda Kay Ledford

This poem was published in "Pancakes in Heaven," March, 2016 issue.

 

 

 

I wish my blogger friends a blessed Easter and a splendid spring!

 

Ma's Apron

Ma's Apron

Ma Ledford always wore an apron.

She churned butter, gathered apples

and baked bread wearing

her white starched apron.

Ma hoed her garden

in her one-pieced apron

and used it as a basket

to carry okra, corn, and tomatoes

into the kitchen.

She built fires in the woodstove

smearing soot on the White Lily apron.

When Granddaddy Bob went to market,

she changed into a fresh

lye-washed apron.  She felt

undressed without it.

She used her apron as a fan

to chase flies away from

the dining room table.

I can still see Ma,

plain and practical

wearing her flour sack apron.

--Brenda Kay Ledford

This poem appeared in Farming Magazine, Winter 2015