The Love Shack

Tin roof, rusted!

As I was thumbing through old photo albums searching for inspiration, I came across this picture and my heart skipped a beat as tears welled up in my eyes. This is where my  adventure into adulthood began. I have been searching for the words to convey the “love grows best in little houses” adage but I got nothing. I kept strolling down memory lane and came across a poem that I wrote Corey 20 something years ago. It took me back and made me laugh out loud. Disclaimer: I never claimed to be a poet.

As an outsider peeping in the windows of my memory as you read the words, you may not think the ‘ole Love Shack was anything special. For me, it was everything. It was were I brought my babies home for the first time. It was were Corey learned to ride his bike bike. We often had the Barringer siblings over. I would have never guessed that young man of the sibling duo would wind up being Casey’s husband one day. So many memories. Gotta say I miss that little house on Oak Tree Lane.

My takeaway from today’s stroll down memory lane? Write a diary people! There is no way I would have remembered this moment if not for these ramblings of days gone by all too fast.  You think you will be able to recall it all, you won’t.

I guess I should tell you that a “woodtick” was Stuart’s word akin to hillbilly. Scooby was a dog we had after Maddie, the red heeler, met her demise doing what she loved. Story to come. And Petry was an ordinary orange cat. Sparky, well I’ll let you figure that one out.

A Woodtick Christmas – 

A couple of days before Christmas and all through house, all our creatures were sleeping like a ‘lil mouse.

From our mantle our stockings were hung – all is pleasant. We were hoping that Scooby wouldn’t eat all the presents.

On the couch ‘lil Sparky was bundled and sleepin’; on our bed Scooby and Petry were not peepin’.

Me and my sweats and Stuart in his drawers, I’ve been hitting him all night, my how he snores.

When out on the lawn, a noise woke me from dreamin’, I hollered at Stuart, “somethings eating your chickens.”

Out the front door like a mad man he ran! Overalls on and pistol in hand.

As he ran out the door I yelled, “don’t shoot ’til you look. The chicken killer could be our neighbors dog Butch.”

I lay there in bed, waitin’ for the gun to fire. But no such a sound, Stuart probably thought I was a liar.

A few minutes went by it was 1:00 in the morning. In came Stuart shouting, “my new chickens are drowin’!”

I need some old newspaper, they are all soaked and wet. “We’re out but if you look, you’ll find something I bet.”

Sure enough in a bag he found an ‘ole box. Hum, I wonder if the culprit was our local red fox?

Back outside into the blistering winter air. He couldn’t find feathers anywhere.

Came back in the room and disarmed himself. Put the 9 mm back on the shelf.

Stripped down to his drawers and got back in bed and before I knew it he was resting his head.

Dedicated To Humble Beginnings





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