Curtisj Johnson


My Humble Abode - Poem by Curtisj Johnson

My Humble Abode

I awake to the sounds of roosters informing everyone that it’s time to rise and shine. The roosters have just clocked in to start there morning shift. If it’s winter, getting up is very painful. There is no central heating system to maintain the comfort. Daddy had started the fire, but the bedrooms were not yet warm. If it’s summer in Dixie, we went to bed hot. The humidity lingered, and the sweat kept pouring. I, a child, knew that something was gravely missing. There was such dire need to rise from the sting of poverty and taste the pleasure of a ‘merry-go-round, or a swimming pool. Anyway, we were somewhat relieved through the night, because the crickets and the lightning bugs always worked throughout the night. The ever present sound of crickets soothed us through the quiet and dark country nights. The window fans ran all night as our every breath became one with the sound of the fan blades.

My place of birth was a concrete block house of four original large rooms. Envied by none that I am aware of, but greatly loved by me and my siblings. A strong little house, providing warmth and shelter for mom, dad, grandmother, all 12 of us kids, and a dog name jack.

Little complaining; lots of dreaming.
My abode was common and simple, but there was absolutely nothing simple about my dreams. I dreamed of a bigger and better house, warmer and cooler; one of my very own. I, a little boy, imagined more doors, more windows, carpeted floors, and a non leaky roof.

My house had a chimney and a big heater which provided the primary heat in winter. Wood and coal was never lacking, and daddy supplemented two other rooms with small gas heaters. There was no inside bathroom, no hot water heater, and we had one indoor water faucet in the back room next to the kitchen. We had a refrigerator and electricity throughout the house, but no form of air conditioning except window fans. A two room wooded addition was later built, and the six window dwelling then became an eight window house. But windows had there own sense of necessity with nothing to do with scenic views, because there were none to behold. The mid 70’s was the last that I saw my humble abode. I have been informed that it is now long gone, but it shall forever be a fixture in both my heart and mind. My mother needed not to be rushed to the hospital for a doctor to deliver me, because the midwife met us there in the little block house.09022015 Ct, Child's first home

Topic(s) of this poem: childhood , dreaming, poverty

Form: Prose Poem


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Poem Submitted: Friday, September 4, 2015



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