Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)
(Back in the mid-‘60s; St. Paul, Minnesota)

Who was he? I kind of misplaced him when I was young, his rustic voice, broken English, but now and then it comes back to me (the Ole Russian Bear, grandpa). He was kind in his own rude way…funny, but that’s how I remember him; my brother, mother and I, all together on Cayuga Street, in the late 50s and 60s…!

Who was he? I kind of miss him now, the Ole Russian Bear; he cursed a lot, I recall, to whom ever got in his way, in those old, far off days—but now, now that I think of it, he was what he was, the sole voice that stood above the house, perhaps feeling un-thanked, who knows.

Yes indeed, the catalyst of over lives he was, perhaps a tinge of destiny he planted here and there: he counted his money, like honey, and paid the taxes, tradesmen, and utilities, I guess I didn’t notice or care.

A man of a few words, little style, but his presence was huge, manners sedate, faithful as I look back, more so than that old black wooden mantel clock, that sat on top of the dresser, more faithful than most wives.

1/21/2007 (#1628)