The Knob

The Knob

 

I have a tale to share here

Of a stalwart mountain woman

Who lived with her man nigh on forty years

In a ramshackle clapboard house

 

Chicken coops, a ramshackle barn

A straggly vegetable patch

Hogwire fencing on gray cedar posts

Front door painted haint blue

 

Rickety steps with no handrail

Lace curtains blow in the breeze

Clothesline strung from house to shed

An old coon dog and a stray tomcat

 

Now she was known to be moody

Some days barely spoke a word

He was called a mean 'un around these parts

And got liquored up more often than not

 

The house sat halfway up a hill

Of the sort you see hereabouts

A hill so steep and daunting

Only goats and sheep would climb it

 

Through time and season

Pathways will wear at random

As the livestock traipse to and fro

Amidst stones and briars and clover beds

 

At the top of the hill was a flat top rock

That stood about two feet tall

A perfect place to sit a spell

And take the scenery in

 

Now this woman was one rather deep

And would brood for days at her plight

Barren of child and bound to her man

Almost drove her insane

 

From time to time she would go out

And stand in her yard

Staring hard and long towards that rock

Jaw clenched tight in apron and dress

 

Off up that hill she would start

Slow at first planting her feet firm

Always looking ahead

Then faster still in a steep straight climb

 

No zigzag paths for her trail were taken

She was a woman on a mission

If one were close enough to see her face

Tear streaked dirt tracks would be there

 

And trembling lower lip

What put her in such a state might vary

Depending on the day or time

But oh she knew with no doubt at all

 

Exactly what her day would bring

So off she strode slow at first

Then faster as she went

The last few yards would be at a trot

 

Until she reached that flat top rock

Then there she would sit in the healing sun

Her face turned to the sky

And bit by bit her rage and pain

 

Would drift away to the clouds

It is said were it not for the knob

At the top of that hill so steep

Her rage would have grown so hard and hot

 

No man could have stood in her way

Her life was hard

Her pleasures few

I am sure glad she had the knob

 

~Ellen Apple 03/20/2014

 

 

 

 

~Mary Brown, Photographer