Will I be glad when the election is over?
Do I value the find of a four-leaf clover?
You bet! The candidates make such a fuss
and disagree on the problems confronting us!
How wonderful though to live in the U.S.
where I may vote with a bold, secret yes
for a man or woman with courage to campaign
in a land where the sun overshadows the rain.
Each has a chance to win the election,
but first, the runner must prove perfection
or else he or she will be out of the race,
disappointed, embarrassed with a reddened face.
Whatever the outcome of the election will be,
I shall remain grateful to live where I’m free,
to be able to vote for my candidate of choice,
to stand tall and to test the tone of my voice.
Will I be happy or regret with a passion
that I voted at all? Now that is the question!
Whip–poor–will! Whip–poor–will! A voice declares. It reaches across time and my remembering stops with the sound as it peacefully echoes back from a silent night of long ago. The summers of my childhood come alive with color as a cup of fiery memories overflows.
Yvonne & Freeda Baker
After supper, our family sat on the front porch of our home on Banner Mountain in the Ozark Foothills until time to go to bed.
Dusk appeared just as the whippoorwills began to sing. Fireflies flitted about the yard and some of them had the misfortune of getting stuck inside a jar, held by small, sweaty hands. Jarflies were so noisy that adult voices had to stop sometimes, but the children’s laughter continued and mingled with the noise of the approaching nighttime.
Daddy never said how tired he was or how hard he had worked or how aggravated he had been. It seemed as though he loved everybody he had ever met, and felt no ill will toward anyone.
And Mama was always unruffled, unhurried, and able to relax as she went about her household duties. The apron she wore has no replicas.
The modern day housewife seldom wears an apron. But her children need to feel the security that I felt on those summer evenings when my family gathered to wait for bedtime –when the dogs lay lazily in a corner of the yard, and chickens were on the roost, the door to the henhouse closed and locked. Once again the chickens had escaped the whistling hawk that sailed the clear skies overhead. Tomorrow would be another day. Whip–poor–will!