Coming up with my poem, “Daddy’s Old Shoebox,” was the easiest thing in the world—as easy as remembering the man!
A little girl is enchanted by her Daddy’s old treasures.
Dad was a farmer, a singer, and a man of deep faith and contentment. And besides all that, he had a flare for rhyming. He could make a rhyme out of anything.
From the time I was young, Dad included me in his rhyme-making ways.
When I was teensy-weensy, he’d pick me up, set me on his lap, and—while sipping his sweet, creamy coffee—sing to me about my beautiful brown eyes. Then he’d set to thinking a bit, and quickly come up with a rhyme.
This went on year after year. Within moments, off we’d go… humming tunes, singing ditties, and making up rhymes to beat the band.
He’d toss his farmer-hat onto a nearby chair, and suddenly it was the object that inspired him…
Look at that hat, so big and so fat,
It’s rim must fit but a few,
It’s squishy and squashy and sad as can be,
My goodness, let’s try it on you!
On any hay-flying day, he’d come in from the fields; his thoughts a million miles from before…
Poor Bertha is down; and it gives me a frown,
Shall we send her off to the zoo?
No! Can’t put her there, just wouldn’t be fair,
Not while her baby’s still due.
The barn provided another setting rich with fodder for rhymes…
Tie her tail back, child, please tie it back,
A switch is not what we like.
Buckets of milk, now that’s what we’re after.
So please tie it back, my sweet tike.
In early spring, as he and I walked through the willows bushes fetching cows, he’d pull out his pocket knife, cut a cluster of pussy willows (decked in their fuzzy, gray coats) for Mom. Then we’d sing a cute little rhyming song we both loved. (Sorry, I don’t know who wrote it.):
“When the first warm breezes blow,
Comes a little friend we know,
Pussy willow,
Pussy willow.”
(The complete song has several verses)
In all Dad’s rhyming, I wonder if he was hoping to construct a rhyme that was as sweet and timeless as “Pussy Willow.” That tune remained our #1 favourite rhyming song over the years. We sang it together every time I returned home—right up until he was 91.
Dad’s daily inspiration and that little song hooked me on rhyming for the long haul. “Thank you, Dad!”
Not every poet is into rhyming, I know, but I want my words to rhyme—like Daddy’s did. I want to look around the room, barn, or field and see a rhyme take shape—just like his did. I want to test and try words, to see if they can fit together and make sense—like his always did.
Dad’s rhymes weren’t mighty, ponderous revelations, nor were they deeply thought-through concepts. They were simple lines about everyday life. Sweet and snappy. Short and fun. As unique as snowflakes, and as significant as the twinkle in my Daddy’s eyes.
None lasted more than a day. They were simply …
Daddy-daughter yitter yatter,
Not much more,
Cheerful fits of cleverness,
Happiness galore!
Encouraging others in their God-given calling carries day-to-day enjoyment for this author and life coach. Doris writes and journals daily for the sheer pleasure of it. Baking also provides delight. Raised on a dairy farm in Alberta’s beautiful wild rose country, she presently resides in Wallace, Idaho, serving alongside her pastor/chaplain husband.
www.facebook.com/doris.fleming.3152
Daddy’s Old Shoebox is an example of important matters described in what I think of as a folk-song manner. The lilt is light. The tale has weight.
For me, the story behind Doris’s rhyme makes two things clear: 1) Doris has definitely inherited her father’s rhyming gene. 2) She was blessed to have such a warm relationship with her farmer father, a busy man. I quite enjoyed reading it.
Lovely Doris! So happy for you! Keep writing for sure!!