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.