28, November 2024 Poem To The Sandridge Settlers

 To A Sandridge Settler
By
Helen Tobin Holcomb

1922-2016

Brave hearted men and women
Left their homes afar,
Each for a reason of his own
To follow the bright North Star

The wagons rolling northward
Carried their needs—and less
With tools to cut and hew a home
Out of the wilderness.

Drawn by a yoke of oxen
Or a team of rugged draft
Followed by sheep just newly sheared
And a cow with her heifer calf.

A crate of squawking laying hens,
A pen’d up pair of shoats,
A walking plow roped to the side
And a canvas bag with oats.

Taking the bare necessities,
Frills they will not know
But tuck’d in the folds of a comforter
Is a shining fiddle and bow.

Cursing mosquitoes, they inched their way
Thru the mud of the dim blazed trail.
The women prayed as they drove the teams,
And hushed the children’s wail.

Worn and ragged and weary,
They reached the wilderness
Where they would live and build their homes
And they prayed for God to bless.

Bedded down ‘neath the wagon
The mosquitoes hum’d like a band,
But from the pines, a Whip-poor-will called
A welcome to the ridge of sand.

Sweet berries hung in clusters,
And thriv’d in the fine light sand.
They hunted the deer, and moose, and bear
And lived from the wealth of the land.

They worked and played. The years were hard.
None came thru unscathed.
They nursed the sick, and buried the dead
And kept their quiet faith.
    
A teacher came to a pine log school
To answer a needy call.
And she bent the twigs and saplings
So they grew up straight and tall.

• • • • • •

We stand in a homestead clearing
And through a veil of tears,
We view what's left of strife and toil
Of a settlers hopeful years.

A rotting post of fence line,
A wire nailed to a tree,
Quack grass and thistles grow green and rank
And show where a barn used to be.

A rusty bucket and wash boiler
Half buried in the sand,
Amid the tins and broken glass
A kettle with a bright blue band.

A birch tree grows from a root cellar
Walled with rock and stone,
A lilac bush and bridal wreath
Still call the clearing home.

Peeking from the sod and weeds,
Sweet Williams white and red,
Still blooms today to mark the place
Of a fragrant flower bed.

A rusted piece from a heating stove,
The eyelets of an old work boot,
The sole of a lady’s slipper,
All lay in the quack grass roots.

A happy house moved long ago
Away to a strange new place,
Along with hopes and memories
From the forests warm embrace.

The log hut’s burn’d, the ridge went back
To the wilds and native game.
The smoke had cleared. It’s quiet now
Like before the settlers came.

We hear no children’s laughter.
A wild bee sips its fill.
Some blue jays gather in a popple tree.
Old Bossies bell is still.

We hear a soft sad whisper
From the waving tall pine trees.
This was their home, Now all that is left
Is whispering pines and memories.

A cemetery by the road
Shows thoughtful care thru time,
The pioneer’s last resting place
Under the whisp’ring pines

Day Lilies and spirea
In the gentle breezes wave.
Sweet lilies of the valley
Border a tiny grave.

Oh Pioneers, we owe a debt
Its size we dare not name
For opening up the wilderness
For we who later came.

We bow our heads in gratitude,
And brush away our tears.
We vow your memory shall live
Down thru the long, long years.