Summers in Coos Bay

Drifting down the murky slough
in Grandpa Herb’s careworn canoe,
singing songs we wandered through
our happy childhood days.

We hiked one hundred grassy slopes
in rubber boots with sunshine hopes
and swung from trees on tattered ropes;
picked dandelion bouquets.

Oh Coos Bay, you carefree place,
with homemade jam on each child's face!
We knitted scarves and tatted lace
for Nanna's easy praise.

As coltish days gave way to night
we’d give ourselves an awful fright;
spin eerie tales with sheer delight
intending to amaze!

The groves, the fields, the paper mill,
the rain, the fog, each tree-lined hill,
the neighbors helping with good will,
my memory replays.

I miss the musty, hay-filled barn, 
the smell of worsted woolen yarn
and all those socks we had to darn!
Summers in Coos Bay.

Written August 30, 2001