Grammy is Montpelier.
She is New Hampshire,
Fairgrounds Road,
And the Yellow House.
She is Plymouth history.
She is library books,
Old photos,
And farm antiques.
She is fancy dishes,
She is spilled milk towels,
Reused foil,
And paper napkins.
Grammy is summer time,
She is river picnics,
Moonie swimming,
And weeded flowers.
She is outside work.
She is wispy windrows,
Stacked up bales,
And Baker rinsing.
She is tilled up earth.
She is lots of bees,
Potato bugs,
And too much squash.
Grammy is sheep and pigs,
She is collected eggs,
Sketchy milk,
And home-made butter.
She is rice and chicken,
She is swedish meatballs,
Creamed chip beef,
And fluffernutters.
She is scummy pudding.
She is popcorn balls,
Coffee ice cream,
And Van choc straw.
Grammy is winter fires.
She is cross-country skis,
Cooking sap,
And steaming cocoa.
She is stitch and bitch.
She is spinning wheels,
Carded wool,
And knitted hats.
She is pink lipstick.
She is church attire,
Rubber boots,
And dirt stained pants.
She is family bonds.
She is Toadie’s Mole.
She is fond memories.
She is our heart.