Great -Great Grandpa sat on the porch; leaning against a roof post, his time was limited. The morning broke fair, nary a cloud, the blue sky of daylight felt good, like his old beaver hat that perched back on his head, his balding pate scrunched up like bakers cloth beneath its cover, as he looked at the eastern light.
The boards were comfy, they had lost the bloom of the new growth and foraged the best that a one-by could make, covered in whitewash, all kicked away by the steps of those who had marched in and outside the house. His coffee was cold, the tin-cup that held it ached from the coolness. He wore his jeans, a blue shirt that mother had made, and a pair of suspenders from black dyed cloth and leather, folded material with each buttoned at the front, crossed and sewn at his middle back, and buttoned at his waistband. He looked at the sky, the wallow of trees that kept the creek secret, the grass that washed up from its rocking soil, up to the corner of the porch.
Great-Grandma sat in the rocking chair whenever she could sit. This morning was busy, however, and with just the slight breeze she knew that cooking would be welcomed work. He had lit the stove, compelled the fire to start, pulled a pot of coffee and had lit his one smoke a day and left to rest on the porch.
She had six fresh eggs from the basket, combined and stirred them together in the porcelain bowl. She had pulled her flour into a pool, swarmed it with fresh milk and her hands, and with less than a dozen pulls had made the nine biscuits that filled the pan. The black skillet laid on the burner surface, she had pulled the burner cover back, and set the biscuits in the oven, placed the lard inside and started breakfast with a flash. All inside her blue dress, handmade, with small little white flowers, and her leather shoes.
They were there. Then they were gone. No pictures, no real remembrances of their lives other than the thoughts of their young ones who kept living on, through generations, and generations, to that point, where they, as Daddy and Momma would rest assured their time on earth was over.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Curtis Payne
Park Hill, Oklahoma 1865
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