4/4/2022 Poetry by W Roger Carlisle Raito Akehanareru CC
Cracker Barrel My Mom and Dad grew up on a farm in depression times. We stopped at Cracker Barrel often to use the bathroom, eat lunch, buy mountains of festive-smelling holiday decor from the Old Country Store. My death-shadowed mother delighted in the miniature rustic farms, quaintly lit churches in perfectly decorated Christmas villages, admired vintage grandpa and grandma mugs and sweatshirts, thousands of cellophane-wrapped expectations, blue rocking chairs adorned with painted flowers, jars of horehound candy, red pistachios, peanut brittle, Laffy Taffy, Lemonheads, Root Beer Barrels, saltwater taffy, and licorice whips. We sat and shared memories of Granny’s kitchen, often connected to Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions, vintage foods directly from the pages of “Good Housekeeping”, jello salad filled with fruit cocktail topped with Rediwhip, angel food cake, tuna surprise covered with potato chips, tomato aspic with lemon-flavored gelatin, minced onions, and tomato sauce. What was most grand and beautiful about this rambling store was a faith in things unseen, imagining you could regain what you lost or never had, wandering and remembering my Grandpa rocking in his rocker, in his blue chambray work shirt, Dickies bib overalls, his smoldering cigar resting on the edge of a bean bag ashtray while he devoured a bag of horehound drops. We didn't say much after lunch. My parents finished eating and stared blankly at their empty plates. I sat in my seat feeling overwhelmed, aware of my breathing, sensing my losses, and the absoluteness of the end. W Roger Carlisle is a 75-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He grew up in Oklahoma and was a history major in college. He has been writing poetry for 11 years, and is a nominee for a 2021 Pushcart Prize. He is currently on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process. Comments are closed.
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August 2024
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