Boofa and I walked five miles, noticing the great hills of fire ants that have come up after the rain.
The rain has also drummed the catalpa blossoms out of the trees and washed away the stains of the huckleberries from the walkway. I am remembering my mother's grandfather, who was a surgeon's assistant in the Civil War and Captain Blackney, who was probably in the war and who loaded up his family and possessions in a wagon drawn by oxen and walked to Mississippi. He was then 65 years old. But I want to remember my father's grandfather who served in the Union Army in most of the great battles of the war, including Gettysburg and Bull Run. I have his photograph.
And here is the photograph of Grandfather Baer,
Dressed in a suit and tie just like Mark Twain,
Even the straw Panama hat, the leather shoes,
Which lace up the ankle, an arch, a short heel.
He was a music teacher in Philadelphia
And before that, a soldier who came home
From Bull Run, Antietam and Gettysburg
Unharmed.
It is late summer, the first leaves have fallen
To the ground from the elm tree behind him.
There is the garden full of ripe tomatoes
And raspberries and even flowers.
I can see the tall spires of hollyhocks.
He is sitting on a bench made of thick twigs
Built into a sunburst design on the back.
And there is a little boy with him
Dressed entirly in white, except for
His tiny dark leather shoes. His hair is
Thick and straight, caramel with bangs.
The little boy holds his grandfather's thumb.
He is my father, long dead these thirty years.
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