Edith's House

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    Edith's House

    The yellow house is still there. Edith’s grandson and his family live there now and it’s painted brown. Edith was Howard’s Mother. I was 16 and worked for Howard on the 3 Circle Ranch. I was a hay hand. After haying season was over I did ranch work. When things were slow Howard would have me rake the yard or do other chores around her house. Occasionally Edith would invite me in. She would have kool-aid and cookies for me. We would sit in the living room and look out the bay window toward the Aspen. I called her Mrs. Brokaw and said ‘Yes Mam and No Mam’. I think she liked that.
    I first worked for Howard in the summer of 62' before he married Audrey. Edith was always nice to me. I slept in the bunkhouse. Every week she changed the line. I never saw her do that. I would just come in one evening to find fresh linen. There was a basin, a pitcher and a soap dish on a small table.. I would get water from Rock Creek which ran behind the bunkhouse and wash my face and brush my teeth every morning. The water was cold.

     Arlington Wyoming 1960's

    3 Circle ranch

    Edith’s house

    I will remember your yellow house

    from the bay window in the living room

    we would watch the deer

    that had jumped the small fence

    to graze in the front yard

    I remember driving past at night on the way to the bunkhouse

    the moon would be shining

    full bright yellow

    like your house

    sometimes Howard would say. "Why don’t you go up and see how Edith is doing."

    I remember the peace of sitting in your living room

    your son’s hired hand

    sitting in the presence of a majestic kind warmth

    proper and knowing

    I would leave feeling I had visited a special and privileged place

    a place from where there was knowledge

    of earth and of life

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    Teardrops commented on Edith's House

    02-12-2011

    I am so glad you got to meet such wonderful people in your travels and work . Another home run Marie

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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