Knitting Needle and Spitoon Symphony

As I tap through my brain, accessing photo, film, and sounds from my past, short snippets pop-up which deserve some poetic license. Going back 60 years, I can vividly picture my great-grandparents (Ba and Nan McDonald) each sitting in their rocking chairs in Lincoln, Nebraska. They were both in their mid-80s, it was 1948, and they deserved a rest, after their pioneering days as farmers in Sutton, Nebraska.

Ba and Nan didn't say much. I just sat there and was initially bored. But then, my youthful curiosity tuned-in to their memorable concert. Ba, spitting into his spittoon, made a soft cymbal sound, while Nan, with her knitting needles, joined in with a melodic tapping cadence. It was hypnotic. Funny, how our computer brains record and then recall these "golden moments" in our lives.

Ba and Nan and their simple symphony deserve to be remembered. This poem is for them:

Knitting needle and spittoon symphony

Of course I didn't get it
Their music wasn't hip
Spittoon and knitting needles
Their beat, profoundly flip

Old Ba cranked his head
Brown teeth bared, lips apart
Face, wrinkled and taut
Ready to launch his dart
And, I didn't get it

Granny Nan, knitting nearby
Her needles tapping and turning
On a black and orange something
Birthing, creating, life resuming
And, it didn't register

1948, and I was six
Invited to McDonald's concert
Just two old farm hicks
They gave me front row
But, I was bored already

Sky King, please rescue me
From this moribund pair
Hold our caskets! They plea
And listen to our symphony
So I looked and listened

Their chaotic chorus begins
Ba's tobacco dart hits spittoon
Brass resonates off drooling chin
More phlegm flying, more percussion
And, I liked the sound

While Nan's needles tap
A Gene Krupa cadence
Cob-webbing wool on lap
Her swan song so sweet
And, I got the beat

Their family concert still fills me
With the essence of their seed
Honky, hip, hicks exiting
With one last enobling deed
And, I love them for it

Michael Charles Pierce