Back In Nineteen Hundred Three Poem by Carolyn Ford Witt

-BACK IN NINETEEN HUNDRED THREE-

There were camp meetings every summer
And they were quite a sight.
The big white tent among the trees
Different preachers every night.

A raised floor for the pulpit
Wood benches for the folks,
Horse and buggies lined earthen road
And were tied among the oaks.

The preachers were so vibrant
Preaching fire and brimstone there,
All the families brought their picnics-
More then enough-to share.

And after all that shouting,
Family and friends would gather round
To hear the ole time music
And to sing and stomp the ground.

Grampaw Arthur played the fiddle,
He was a master with his bow.
Uncle Tavy shared the spotlight
With his worn old banjo.

Uncle Jim played the juice harp
Hooked to a frame around his head,
As he strummed the mellow guitar
With it's stripe of flaming red.

They played into the morning;
By the end, their hands did ache.
But they played that ole time music
Until the morning sun would break.

Then they hitched up horse and buggy,
Slowly filing out t'ward home
To put the horse to pasture
Happy there to freely roam.

These stories Daddy told me,
Would fill my mind with glee
And now I have to share them
with all my friends and family.


Author: Carolyn Ford Witt

By Ms. Caroline


© 2007 Ms. Caroline (All rights reserved)