GRANDMA’S WOOD STOVE
by Mariane Holbrook
In Grandma’s country kitchen Backed up tight against the wall Stood a heavy iron wood stove Which stood proud and black and tall.
Very early every morning Grandpa’d start to chop the wood, Then he’d stack it in the corner Right where Grandma said he should.
In the open upstairs bedroom Which was cold from lack of heat, We would wake and smell the coffee And then hurry down to eat.
On the wood stove’s well-worn griddle Grandma’s pancakes quickly browned. And the bacon that was frying Always made a sizzling sound.
Grandma’d open up the oven And I’d settle near the heat. Nothing worked as well as wood stoves When it came to warming feet.
Grandma’s stove baked luscious biscuits Which were puffy, golden brown That she served with fresh-churned butter And with honey dripping down.
Later in the quiet evening You could hear us smack our lips; Grandma liked to make her version Of her stove-top ‘tater chips.
Grandma’s stove can dredge up mem’ries Of the happy times it gave. I would rather have her wood stove Than my modern microwave.