REMEMBERING CRAWDADS

Sixteen miles from my home,
the White River curves slightly to the south.
In the fall, we sat near its edge,
as my friend’s two boys caught crawdads
that scrambled under stones in a puddle
formed by the roots of a sycamore.
The two boys, so patient, so fast, raced toward us,
rewarded by the catch of a crawdad no bigger than my thumb,
flipping in the net.
At first shrieking with delight, they quieted to study the feelers;
     the wet, beady eyes;
     the armor-like tail, curved and flipping.
My friend and I leaned in to admire.

I stared.
I stared, because I had forgotten about crawdads.
I forgot that there were nearly translucent crustaceans
whisking along the murky mud of the White River,
snapping their pincers and slipping under rocks.

I forgot that God planned it all, from the beginning,
that He cared about tiny crawdads
     and eager preschoolers
     and their mothers
     and fall afternoons in Indiana.

I forgot that He knew that very moment,
when two young boys forming the bones of manhood
would feel the thrill of the chase, the hunt, the catch.
He knew those boys, holding up crawdads for us to gaze and admire.

He knew that I would suddenly remember it all,

and give thanks.

© 2002 Ann Kroeker

FIELD HANDS

My father asks me why I'm so dirty.
I say it's because I played in the field with Becky.
I won't tell him I worked from two until suppertime
helping pick potatoes with the Hammons in their field.

I won't tell him how warm and rich the earth was
when Mr. Hammons plowed through, leaving dry ripples
for us to dig our hands in to fish for potatoes.
Or how we picked up six-inch worms and threw them at each other,
while tossing potatoes into ratty bushel baskets.

I like going home with limp hair,
stringy from the summer wind,
and a film of dust on my arms and legs.
When my mom asks me to wash the dishes,
I'll say I'm too tired.

© 1992 Ann Kroeker

FEEDING THE COWS

When I grow up,
I want to be an airline pilot.
But right now I have to feed the cows.

The way I do it, is I pull myself up the rusty boxcar ladder
my dad hung on the wall
for us to use to climb up into the loft.
Just for fun, I clang the cold iron rungs
with my metal wire-cutters,
and listen to my ears ring.
Dad's giant, leather work gloves flop around on my hands,
and my glasses slide down my nose
while I climb up the walls of hay,
higher and higher to the tip-top.

The next step is to drag some hay bales down
and clip the baling wire.
I bend the wires around in different shapes
to make a coat hanger, a giant paperclip,
or some aviator glasses, and then hang them from a nail.
My dad saves them to fix fences
where the bull busts through.
I separate the bales into sections,
kind of like a loaf of bread that falls apart
when you pull the plastic wrap off.

Then I throw each slice of hay through the loft window
and watch it fall into the feeder below.
When the cows start eating, I aim for their heads.
I doesn't hurt them. They're stupid already.
So after I throw down about five bales
(We don't have very many cows),
I climb down, and push my glasses back up my nose.
My brother Joey says people with glasses can't fly airplanes,
but I don't believe him.

©1987, Ann Kroeker, who did feed the cows from time to time, but who dreamed of writing, not flying airplanes and whose brother's name is Charlie, not Joey.

DOLLY SPROATT, 1896-1987

I think I'll remember you
scattering pressed, dried flowers
all over your dining-room table,
warning me not to sneeze,
as you pieced them together
with tweezers and contact paper,
and sold them as cards
for a dollar at the church bazaar.

Or when you would lean over my shoulder,
winding yarn through the fingers of my left hand
and repositioning the hook in my right,
smiling, and stroking my hair
as I crocheted a strand of single crochet
seventy-five feet long.

I pretended to sleep
while listening to you
kneel at the side of your bed at night
and whisper your prayers.
You would ease in next to me
and give me a butterfly kiss goodnight.
As we lay there in the purple darkness,
you would hum "Buffalo Gals"
and stare at the ceiling,
thinking of Grandpa.

I saw you through the back glass of the Chevy,
standing, with your fine, white hair up in combs,
one hand against the drainpipe
and your calico cat weaving around your feet.
As we drove away,
I would wave back to you
long after you'd gone inside.

©1987 Ann Kroeker

SUMMER DAYS 

The cows spent most of the day
standing in the pond
with water bugs buzzing lazily
around their mud-caked legs,
sticking to their sweaty udders
that dragged in the algae.

Becky and I threw gravel across the pond
at the cows' flanks.  Blue and yellow dragonflies
whirred around our feet hanging over the bank.
The pig snorted and clattered the aluminum
that fenced him in, while
some of the ducks went for a swim
leaving one mallard to baby-sit.

Becky leaned over the bank to count the eggs.
The ducks paddled around
sliding their necks in and out of the water.
We got up and kicked dirt clods along to the back field,
where we climbed around on a fallen trunk
by the swampy, stagnant water
and pretended we were trying to cross the Mississippi River.

We walked back to the pond
and wondered if we could hatch one of those duck eggs.
At supper, Mr. Hammons found out we had been playing at the swamp
and said there were lots of snakes there.
We never saw any.

©1988 Ann Kroeker

Today in the Neighborhood

I wonder if my mother sighed today
when she set down the paper.
I wonder if she wept. Or smiled. Or prayed.

Someone died today;
someone who provided Mom with
half an hour of freedom,
solitude,
relief
from nonstop care of her two kids;
Someone died,
whose soothing voice filled the living room
of our house on Duffey Street
and freed my mom to read a mystery,
work on her newspaper column,
or take a shower.

Mr. Rogers died today.
Mr. Rogers, who zipped up his sweater
five days a week,
offering comfort and security
during the tumult of the late ‘60s and '70s
when I was small and needed someone
to show me how to tie my shoes
sit in a dentist's chair,
and feed the goldfish.
He trolleyed me away
from the low rumble
of my father's frustration
with everything,
it seemed.

Mr. Rogers was a friend
to me…

and to my mother,
a housewife tending her children
while composing a career in journalism
in spite of a husband who never changed a diaper
or stirred spaghetti
or understood her need to pour words onto paper.

The sweater, the shoes, the trolley
offered her, too, comfort and security
in the inner tumult of her own life.

Mr. Rogers smiled at my mom each morning
as I stopped peppering her with questions
about tornadoes and White Castle hamburgers
and settled down on the gray carpet
or the green vinyl chair.
Maybe she smiled back at the screen,
 or nodded, or sighed.
Maybe she whispered, "Thank you,"
as she retreated to the bedroom
or the kitchen table
for a moment of quiet
with a steno pad, ballpoint pen and a mug of coffee.

Mr. Rogers was a good friend to us both,
but I wonder today, on this day he died,
if he somehow meant more to my mom
who was reaching for identity through the lifeline of writing
while teaching her two young children to read
from flashcards she made by hand
and flipped for us to practice
until we spouted typewriter and elephant
and you and me.

And Mommy.
And Daddy.

And Neighbor.

© February 27, 2003
Ann Kroeker