Mam-maw on the back porch, concrete floor she sits,
Pan full of water, the knife she occasionally dips,
Scrape, scrape, scrape, knife blade made of steel,
Doing what she does so well, preparing for a meal,
An apron of small taters, sitting on her lap,
The sun has barely peeked above the Tennessee Cumberland Gap,
Carefully she picks one up and inspects it through her glasses,
Scrutinizing if it’s culled or if it thoroughly passes,
Getting rid of eyes, and spots and skin, she scrapes each tater,
These golden jewels she will add to green beans, a little later,
Giving attention to detail, her nimble fingers toil,
These taters she planted, raised and dug right from her own rich soil,
I watch her work so carefully, as I peer out the back screened door,
I’m just a child but I already know; she is my pride and joy.
written: 1/31/2016 Tammy Harvey
Me and Mam-maw in July 2006:
Many of my poems are about my childhood days and a few specifically about my Mam-maw Langston. She died in 2007 at the age of 97. I am honoring her memory by posting "Scraping Taters".
(For those of you who don't speak southern, a "tater" is a potato.)
Darling and sweet!!
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