Folks don’t seem to git as hungry
As they did in days of yore;
They jist rush of to a resturnt,
Or they eat out of a store.
They jist tag some common vittles
With some ancy soundin’ name;
And they serve ’em up real fancy,
But they jist ain’t quite the same
As when Mother fired the cookstove,
Shovin’ in those sticks of wood;
Cookin’ beans, and bakin’ biscuits,
And those apple pies…so good.
Seems I see her at the oven
Pullin’ pies out…steamin’ hot,
And my grandma pourin’ coffee
From the old gray coffee pot.
Mom would send us to the cellar
For those jars of home-canned fruit,
And she would bake a bunch of pies
That any king would suit.
Times were hard, back in those old days,
Not much money in our jeans;
But we never thought of starvin’
For we had our bread and beans.
And those golden-crusted biscuits
Spread with honey were a treat,
And we always had our taters,
And we always had our meat.
I remember, how at supper time
When evenin’ chores were done
We’d fetch in water from the well,
And scrub up…one by one.
We would hang our “jimmyslingers”
Back behind the kitchen door,
And grandma always scolded us
For trackin’ up the floor.
Then we’d gather at the table,
Each in his accustomed place,
And would bow our heads in lamplight
While Mother said the grace.
Oh! those good old beans and dumplin’s.
And those biscuits…golden brown;
Gee! it seems like I still see ’em
With the butter meltin’ down.
Yes, these modern cookin’ gadgets
To my Mom would seem quite strange.
They could never match the magic
Of her old wood-burnin’ range.