With his head down, he comes sauntering in,
with his eyebrows where his chin had been.
Wyatt’s our fourth grandchild and we’re as proud as can be,
that he’s coming into his own, for all the world to see.

Since he entered this world in two thousand and ten,
he’s not had much to say.  Not a who, what or when.
Now his world is busy, you just have to watch to see;
He’s into heavy machinery…maybe a builder to be.

Playing quietly by himself, Wyatt’s in his zone;
with his trucks and tractors, until his dad Matt comes home.
Big brother is special to Wyatt, don’t cha see.
But when dad’s around, that’s where Wyatt wants to be!

He cares as much for his sister Ava, too,
but boys being boys…well, they have so much to do!
There are holes to be dug and when they are through,
you get to race cars…not one…maybe twenty-two.

The bad guys are out there and have an hour lead.
So, Ava joins her two brothers – all three on their knees,
as they race their cars from one point to another,
catching those hombres before they get any further.

Having twenty cars in your posse is as easy as pie,
if you are at Mimi’s and Poppy’s, and here’s the reason why.
One fateful Saturday morning, to a yard sale they drove,
and when they returned they had a treasure trove.

Sacks full of little cars that would make any boy grin;
enough to chase bad guys again, and again…and again.
Another sack held toys that now make Wyatt drool;
tractors, trucks, trailers…y’know…working man’s tools.

While Matt can’t resist any tool he sees,
Wyatt is content learning constructability.
Diggin’, loadin’ and haulin’ is the obvious joy,
for this quiet, intent and shy little boy.

When he and his mom would arrive at our place,
you’d speak to him, but he’d bury his face.
At those times his mom was his pacifier,
and one would think he couldn’t get any shyer.

But Wyatt is becoming a joy to be around,
and his interests are bigger than just digging in the ground.
He idolizes big sis and brother so much,
they hardly can move without his constant touch.

Lucas, particularly, is this little one’s idol.
Though years apart, he will always sidle
up next to Lucas, whatever he’s pursuing,
to be a part of what his big brother is doing.

Lucas is golden, but his mom is something else.
Wyatt really loves her and she found out herself,
when she planted some daffodil bulbs in the ground.
To teach her children something very profound.

The miracle of growth is a wonderful way,
to show how God loves us, in a beautiful display.
So, as weeks would pass, the children would dash,
to see if flowers had started pushing through the grass.

Before long, green chutes began to appear,
and finally a small bud made it abundantly clear,
that a beautiful flower wasn’t far behind.
But that was not what Wyatt had in mind.

Youngsters are not too big on waiting,
instant gratification; now that’s captivating.
Wyatt swung into action and with focused calm,
pulled the bud and plant, to surprise his mom!

His joy was short lived, and his siblings ranted,
“You’ve messed up now, those flowers mom planted,
still had some growing to do, you’re in trouble deep!”
Then Mom entered the room, before Wyatt could weep.

“Why, Wyatt, you’ve brought me a beautiful gift,”
Mom said, as Wyatt began to tear up and sniff.
But wiser than her years, she thought, before there are tears,
I’ll use this to teach something special to these dears.

No harm done, as she quieted Lucas and Ava,
I’ll just stick this in a vase, right here on the table.
And we’ll continue to watch and see what God can do,
with little mistakes that all of us make…Wyatt, too.

By the very next morning, the children were greeted,
by a gorgeous yellow blossom that God had completed.
Wyatt’s fear that he’d failed, was now turned to a smile,
and everyone learned that sometimes God just takes a while.

God’s love for us runs deep and true,
and is not wholly dependent on the things we do.
As long as we open our hearts to His love,
and let Him bless our lives from above.

But Wyatt and flowers still have some growing to do.
For every so often, to prove he loves his mommy true,
Wyatt will go a-flower-pickin’ somewhere, in some yard.
bringing back a lone, wilted bloom most would discard.

His mommy, knowing the love in this gentle child,
will thank him profusely, which will bring out Wyatt’s smile.
She’s careful to protect his tender heart,
for his intentions are great, whatever he starts.
We all learn that finding beauty in God’s creation,
is easy when you liken it to His salvation,
And giving it to others becomes our destination!

Stephen “Poppy” Alexander
July 31, 2014

From two brothers growing up, to having sons of my own,
in my whole life, I’ve seen nothing but testosterone!
So, when this “la femme” was born to my eldest son, Matt,
I honestly didn’t know quite what to make of that.

Now, you’ve heard that granddaughters can have their way,
with their grandfathers, getting anything on any given day.
‘Wrapped around her little finger’ is how I heard it put,
as if us granddads were helpless; marching to their “hut, hut!”

But I’ll have you know, this ole boy was primed and ready.
I had read all that junk, but wanted to keep my integrity.
After all, fairness dictated that I treat all my grands,
with evenness, giving all the same from my hands.

That was how I was treated, though it was just us boys.
Everybody got the same…food, haircuts, even toys.
Nobody complained any more than boys generally do,
and without a girl around, that just had to do.

But this bundle of curls and dimples was something else again!
She didn’t use fussin’ and fightin’ like us guys to win.
She had already begun learning those womanly wiles;
getting her way with sugary words and melting smiles.

For starters, I had never been around a real princess.
Boys could be boys, but not this little missus.
They say boys are made of snips and snails,
and outside things like puppy-dog tails.
But girls, well, they’re made of sugar and spice,
and all things that come to define the word ‘nice’.

But our princess Ava plays a little in both sides;
keeping up with brother Lucas in everything he tries.
Just when you think a tomboy she’ll be;
out comes the princess for one and all to see.

She’s cute right now, and a beauty she’ll be.
Daddy better be readying his artillery!
Ready for those youngsters that’ll surely come calling,
for permission to date his beautiful daughter.

Her heart is pure and saved forever;
for her mommy and daddy have prayed together.
Ever since they laid eyes on this precious little girl,
They’ve asked God to guide her through this troubled world.

Invincible then?  Not quite, for you see,
She’s had her struggles, just like you and me.
But God’s got plans for this happy-go-lucky dear,
His hand will shield her, when danger is near.

But for now, she’ll be a princess on days when she wants,
or play with puppy dogs on other days when she don’t.
She’ll dazzle and shine on some big stage some day;
or merely be content to help others on their way.

As a Poppy I’m mellowing – Ava understands this.
Transforming before our eyes into a delightful little miss.
Our own special princess, who simply imparts,
love in every smile that goes straight to our hearts.
Her dimples and grins,
testify once again,
to the love within….our Ava!

Steve “Poppy” Alexander
June, 2014

You’re walking down life’s highway when in a flash—it’s gone!
Instant freefall.  Helpless panic.  How can you go on?
Gravity has turned on you and it happened in a blink.
Life has changed instantly before you had time to think.

If this had happened early in life, you’d be more equipped,
and not so vulnerable to storms that buffet your ship.
Obstacles can then be seen as opportunities.
Doors open as doors close; they’re possibilities.

But Mom was 84 when her world changed dramatically.
Exercise was good for her; her doctor said emphatically.
But late one Friday, with her half-mile completed,
she hit the wrong switch.  Instead of stopping, it speeded.

She left the treadmill violently and sailed through the room.
She landed with a thud and lay helpless in the gathering gloom.
Doors locked and injured seriously, she felt so all alone.
She started crawling on both knees to try and reach a phone.

She did, but to no avail, her injuries wouldn’t permit.
Her arms were useless to her now; all she could do was sit.
Dislocated shoulders, two she had, we would find out later that night,
made use of her arms impossible now; concern turned into fright.

She knew she needed help badly now and that it was up to her,
to somehow get a phone call out, to reach a rescuer.
Painfully, she tugged at the cord until she reached the receiver.
With a trembling voice, she wouldn’t have trouble getting anyone to believe her.

One busy signal after another, she thought, ‘of all the times!
When I desperately needed someone; they’re all on other lines!’
She finally reached a son who said her neighbors were almost there.
An ambulance, too, was on its way; all answers to her prayers.

Her faith today would be sorely tested, but nothing could compare,
to the agony awaiting her, all in the name of health care.
Admitting Mom took long enough, on weekends hospitals are packed.
But once she entered their world, she sadly found out what they lacked.
Compassion, attention, the help she needed, were all missing in action,
except for one nurse who knew her, who tried to show compassion.

But medical care a nurse can’t provide,
no matter how caring or hard she tried.
First things first: Mom needed a room; they “stored” her in a hall.
No one checked her condition, despite her pitiful calls.
She needed a doctor, and desperately now, for she was growing faint.
Her pleas had changed to ‘Take me, Lord’, a more pressing plaint.

Mother had persevered through life.
A mother of three, a homemaker, a wife.
Hard work had steeled her; had made her this way.
But her 85^th birthday was a mere four days away.

She had rolled with the punches that life had brought.
One would think, “Ah, I worry for naught.”
However this night would prove too much,
when she was left with only her faith to clutch.

A medical doctor finally arrived at her side.
“Friday nights, we’re slammed,” was his lame aside.
My mom wasn’t the only one in danger that night,
the Hippocratic Oath was also about to die!

With hands-on care, that doc finally realized,
the suffering and pain in this patient’s eyes.
“Two dislocated shoulders?!” he asked incredulously?
On one patient?  At one time?  How can that be?

That doctor alone couldn’t get the job done.
He called for help; this required more than one.
I was told to leave; to go back outside.
This was going to be painful. I’m sure that she cried.
It proved more difficult than even they assumed;
it was some time before we could return to the room.

One would think the night couldn’t be more chaotic,
but then we heard something so incredibly idiotic.
To recap, the patient is 87 and lives 20 miles away.
A diabetic, she lives alone, preferring it that way.
She’s had open heart surgery and now has dislocated shoulders.
All this information is accurate and in AnMed’s folders.

It’s been hours since we arrived, so it’s almost midnight,
both shoulders have been reset, but she’s still feeling fright.
The medicine for pain hasn’t quite done the job,
she lays weakly on the gurney and continues to sob.

She’s suffered enough, time to move her into a room,
that’s when they dropped the bombshell on us in the gathering gloom.
“She’s being dismissed; you’ll have to take her home.”
“But shouldn’t she be admitted?  She can’t be left alone!”

We were appalled…caught flat-footed by their gall.
Oh sure, their rules helped them make this call.
But wouldn’t a dash of common sense have made this better?
Instead of following your rigid rules to the letter?

They quickly agreed: “She’s fragile and shouldn’t be left alone.”
The hospital policies are quite explicit and tell us she must go home.
Her injuries seem tragic, but not quite so severe,
that we should provide a room overnight here.
(To force a widow lady out with these problems into the night,
could have created a life and death situation from this plight.)

Mom would not go to her home that night,
and we were too exasperated to put up a fight.
Since the hospital bureaucracy had a heart of stone,
I did what any son would do…took her to my home.

There she stayed until a brother took a turn.
Her recovery was slow, but we quickly learned,
this 87-year-old wonder…our family’s matriarch,
was a remarkably tough lady, with a lot of heart.

As we guessed, she couldn’t wait to get back home;
to get back in her surroundings, her comfort zone.
With excellent caring neighbors to call and check her,
she gradually recovered from the fall that wrecked her.

Wounds have healed, though the memories remain,
of friends and family and others who came,
to her rescue on that fateful night.
But one memory always brings back the awful fright.

The pain, so severe, she thought she would die,
seemed to last forever on that fateful night.
And the hospital, that former bastion of healing and hope,
was, on that night, just a cruel, cruel joke.

So, next time around, this is how it’s gotta be.
When someone I love suffers an injury.
It’s sad to say, but I’d rather be dead,
Than suffer the indignities of a place called AnMed.

SDA
6/16/09

Life goes on and with each passing age,
We get to reflect on the turn of the page.
Catherine began life with a head full of curls,
Belying the tomboy that was inside this girl.

A natural athlete of considerable skill,
With a basketball in hand, she was the real deal!
Summertimes were spent at the lake called Broadway.
Enjoying cookouts with her family and tubing all day.

School meant friends and Catherine’s always had many,
A superior student, her IQ was uncanny.
But sickness was a hindrance that reduced her attendance,
and made her scholastic success even more amazing.

Putting sneakers away, she tried out for the arts.
Here she found her niche, and got most of the good parts.
A delightful singer, voice lessons were certain;
To add to her abilities, when they raised the curtain.

An actress in the family, comely and fair.
She’s enjoyed her fling with the cultural fare.
But her heart leads her elsewhere, as you all know;
Babysitting has always been her love (not to mention the dough!)

Another page turns and with high school behind her,
It’s Lander College next on her GPS finder.
Cousin Shelley’s there and can show her the ropes.
Earning a college degree is one of her main hopes.

She’s finding her way, dreaming her dreams;
This tomboy who has turned to more girly things.
She can’t wait to be out on her own she thinks,
(her parents just smile, with knowing winks).

This beauty, who’s kind and helpful to friends and others,
Has had some help growing up from her two brothers.
Now, it’s time to make her own way in this world.
She’s ready, willing and able, this girl.

Dreams, her dreams, are coming true.
After college, she knows what she wants to do.
Working with children would be her desire,
Babysitting helped to fuel that fire.

If her other ventures are any indication,
This young lass, with her determination,
Will win the hearts of those in her care,
And succeed in everything she dares.

Steve Alexander
May, 2010

Marriage is sweetness and spice and everything nice.
It is the ideal union of one man and one woman
It embraces all that is good and right in the world.
It is synergy at its finest hour… combining the fullness of a good woman, with a simple, but courageous man.
Two hearts… two flames… two livers… two lovers.
It is the highest peak love can climb and still breathe.
After all, it was love that started all this mushiness and it will be love that will keep your mushiness mushy.
Love is the accelerator pedal in the SUV of life. Coasting is for sissies!
In its infancy, marriage is sweetness and light… after all, we are talking honeymoon!
No man has ever looked so dashing and handsome; no woman as radiant and beautiful!
They have eyes only for one another. TV is for dullards; books for nerds.
Deep penetrating looks betray the passions that run just under the surface.
Conversations take on a life of their own.
Then comes the “I do.”
You do… and she do, too.
Y’all both do the fandango, too.
You return to earth briefly to begin careers, savings accounts, and grocery lists.
Outside interferences bombard your lives, but you still have eyes only for each other.
Sweetness begets sweetness; there is no problem that can’t be bathed in sweetness.
Tomorrow is nothing, if not another opportunity to look again in your lover’s eyes and say “Aren’t you ready yet?”
Her meals, voyages to the unknown, are sumptuous feasts in his eyes.
She notices and blushes… then helps him find the Pepto Bismol.
They grow towards each other, each an individual, but better together.
But they stop short of beginning to look alike… that’s scary!
What started out as two hearts beating, now sounds as one rhythm.
Can married life really be this nice?
…when pigs fly.

— Alexander the Grate

Who is this wee lad who comes by my way,
Offering me a frog…then taking it away?
Austin’s his name and make no mistake,
He’s here to spread joy, for goodness sake!

But what of this give and take with the amphibian?
Give him a second, he’ll soon be off again.
He’s into this, or that, or on to another pursuit.
So much fun to be had…he’s a real root’n’toot!

He’s mumbling now; something about “Backyardigans”
We, with Mom and Dad, are “cultivating” new friends.
Pablo, Tyrone, and Tasha are three;
Uniqua and Austin complete the team, you see.

The fact that one is named for our own Austin,
May play a part in why he thinks they’re so awesome.
They sing, they dance and they explore the world,
The “team” is made up of three boys and two girls.

We’ve watched this group so often, you see,
Their songs are becoming a habit for me.
I’m humming them, even when Austin isn’t here.
I’m sure the dance steps will be next, I fear!

I’ll need dance steps and more to keep up with this tyke,
He’s on the move, from morning ’till night.
Such energy should be bottled, so I could enjoy,
Keeping up with this cool, energizer bunny-boy!

He’s into everything, all at the same time, to boot.
Moving from cars, to a bear, to trucks that scoot.
There’s not much that will tie this three-year-old down,
But I have found one thing that won’t bring a frown.

If the Backyardigans are on the TV,
Sooner or later, up in my lap he wants to be.
Or quietly sitting beside me…I’ll use any trick,
To slow him and calm him down just a click.

You’ve heard what little boys are supposed to be made of,
But Austin is first made by the good Lord above.
Frogs, snails and puppy dog tails are what the poem imparts,
But God started first putting love in his heart.

He’s being raised by Godly parents; that is certainly true,
Who are teaching him manners and the right things to do.
Austin is taught to hug and kiss when he leaves,
It’s the most precious thing one could ever hope to receive.

Expectations are great when he busts through that door,
Holding that frog…and offering it…but there’s more.
Whether it’s Backyardigans or cars…it really doesn’t matter,
There will be fun to be had amidst the mess and the clatter.

And when it’s time to leave, the fun really starts,
For Mimi and Poppy get to see what’s in Austin’s heart.
You see, he had a small hole in it when he was born.
A premature delivery left us all worried and worn.

The hole eventually closed and we thought we prayed it shut,
But God in His wisdom…the hold He did put,
To pour into Austin’s heart a truckload of love,
Then He healed that little body from His throne above.

The hugs and kisses are just Austin’s way,
Of giving away the love that God gave him that day.
If that were true of all humanity,
This world would be a better place,
For Mimi, Austin and me.

GOD BLESS!

Steve Alexander
Alias, “Poppy”

It might have been spring, more like early summer,
when I took my sons, the elder and the younger,
to Woodhaven in Pendleton, a golf course, Par 3,
which for the uninitiated is a golf analogy
for a course made up of eighteen short holes.
No need for a driver – these holes need short poles.
A pitching wedge, 9-iron, maybe an 8 or a 7;
for the short game enthusiast this course is your heaven.

It’s a favorite spot for the golf ingenue.
Did I mention that the missus went along, too?
We thought it time for the boys to learn
about golf, so to an expert we turned.
Clint Wright, owner-operator of Woodhaven’s greens,
is who would sculpt our sons’ golfing dreams.

They were twelve or thirteen, mere adolescents,
when we decided to take them there for lessons.
At that age, they’re too young and not very focused.
Let ’em play the game some, Mr. Wright told us.

Then, if they like it and want more of the same,
we’ll tutor them in the finer points of the game.
I’ll teach them basic techniques; you’ll add the fun,
and together their pursuit of golf will have begun.

“But while we’re here,” I said, “Let’s enjoy the day.”
So, the four of us agreed to stay and play.
We paid, grabbed a cart and got in line.
The place was packed, the weather, simply divine.

Clemson students were just about everwhere,
laughing and talking with nary a care.
We waited our turn, mom and golfers three,
until we were the next group on the first tee.

It was then we noticed a class being conducted.
About 18 or 20 were being instructed
immediately to the right of the first fairway.
Within our range, we were tempted to say!

Matt was first on the tee and into his waggle,
surveying his target, as well as the gaggle
of interested students, now standing and gawking.
His downswing was fluid and then he started walking.

But wait!  Something had gone terribly wrong!
That tiny white ball was still on its throne!
The club, however, had left the vicinity.
It circled overhead, almost hitting a tree.

With a clang, it landed on a nearby wooden deck.
A gentleman got up, retrieved the club, and said, “Heck,
nice shot, son, but it is time that you now learn,
you get to swing this club again…it’s still your turn!”

Running back to his ball, and with all eyes on him,
Matt proceeded to go through all those motions again.
With everyone focused on this particular swing,
He did the most amazing thing…

His ball, not the club, was sent in lofty flight,
right down the middle of the fairway, all right.
Despite all the stares, snickers and jeers,
Matt had somehow turned their derision to cheers.

He could have succumbed to the pressures that built,
but he steeled himself, focused, and did not wilt.
Blocking the harsh scrutiny, Matt wouldn’t give in;
that ball was a-movin’ this time, my friend!

As Andy approached the tee, there was great apprehension.
After what had just happened, there was still a lot of tension.
He teed his ball, did his waggle and then,
as if to ease everyone’s nerves…he grinned.

Andy’s swing was simple, powerful and straight.
Everyone turned to the fairway, to watch the ball’s fate.
But where’s the ball?…Oh, where?  Does anyone see?
Nope.  That dang ball is still sitting on the tee!

But Andy’s weapon…the club… has ceased to be seen,
unless you looked up into the sky so blue and serene.
It was spinning, flipping and flopping its way
down the bisected middle of that first fairway!

Everyone erupted in surprised shouts and laughter.
Andy took off running: It was his club he was after.
Retrieving the club, he ran all the way back,
and prepared to unleash his second whack.

But this time, by George, you could hear a pin drop!
The class, the course, the whole world had stopped.
Everyone was holding their breath on this swing,
when Andy also did an amazing thing…

With the crowd mesmerized in one collective stare,
he proceeded to bring his club through the air.
Amazingly enough, the ball left the tee!
And split that fairway, so perfectly.

A drive straight and true, after so much commotion,
was a credit to Andy’s intense devotion.
Again, a son had seen calamity arrive,
but recovered his dignity with a very nice drive.

Finally our round was underway,
but what could have caused such confounded play?
We pondered and wondered, while Mom just sat there.
Alone with her thoughts, some she didn’t want to share.

It had come to her remembrance, she later said,
that in trying to do good, had she done bad instead?
Knowing this outing meant so much to these two,
realizing how much the boys had to do,
and wanting their used clubs to shine like new,
Nancy had scrubbed their grips until she was blue.

Scrub-a-dub-dub, ’til the tacky was gone.
She felt particularly proud as we pulled away from home.
But now, could it be that I’ve messed up those grips?
And, in addition to cleaning, I gave them the slips!?

Sad, but true, it seems.  Mom was right on the money.
So slippery, I couldn’t have held those clubs, honey!
Clean they were, sanitized to the hilt,
but grips are tacky, ’cause that’s the way they are built.

You have to be able to hold onto the sticks,
or those extra swings will leave your game in a fix.
As these boys witnessed before us all,
a club isn’t supposed to outdistance the ball!

But before you think we wasted our time,
let me tell you what happened while on the back nine.
As the boys played their way through this first golfing trip,
trying to find their strokes, but with a vice-like grip,
given all that had happened on that very first hole,
when Tiger himself would have slung a pole,

drama still awaited, mid the gathering gloom,
for golf’s a strange game, the boys would learn soon.
On their final hole, in the failing light,
Andy hit it left; then, he hit it right.

Fearing he couldn’t find either ball,
he teed and hit a provisional.
(That’s a do-over, for you uninitiated;
when you don’t hit the shot you anticipated.)
Back into the carts we settled our butts,
and rode to the green for what we thought would be three putts.

Andy was right; the first two balls went awry.
The third wasn’t in sight either, and do you know why?
For all the lessons this day would bring,
the boys would witness one more amazing thing…

That third shot had settled neatly into the hole.
An ace!  Hole in one!…for one and all to behold!
(Now, golfers, we know that an ace that can’t be.
So, on his scorecard, we had to put down a three.)

An afternoon that began with comic relief
had ended with a most miraculous feat.
Such is golf, for those of us who play.
It’s a three-ring circus, just about every day.

So you who are about to try this fine game,
be forewarned: It is hard, but fun just the same.
It’s highs and lows will oft make you grumble,
but this gentleman’s game definitely keeps one humble.

The people you meet and the joys you’ll share,
rival any other sport, but before you get there,
learn the game, it’s equipment and manners, too.
And, please get a grip…or I’ll be writing about you!

Steve Alexander
April 11, 2008

The door barely opens and he’s in on the run,
before the first greetings have even begun.
He’s wearing a big grin as he quickly zips by,
barely slowing, he turns to catch his Poppy’s eye.

The game is on and they both are aware
that, for the next few moments, the prize is…a chair.
Not just any chair mind you, it has to be Poppy’s.
Later he’ll be intrigued with sports and jalopies.

But today, at this time, make no mistake.
Lucas is competing, my seat to take.
He races to gain the first advantage.
With another chair, Poppy will have to manage.

For a few moments, these two simply have no cares,
as the game evolves into musical chairs.
Lucas scores first, diving into my recliner,
Now, it’s time to switch places…to swap our behinders.

Laughing and giggling, all the way through
(that’s me, but I see he’s enjoying this, too!)
Perhaps he’ll eventually wind up in my lap,
Where not too many years ago, I held his Pap.

But today, it’s just us two running around,
him taking what’s mine; me, pretending to frown.
One day this game will give way to other pursuits,
like bicycles, skateboards or books by Dr. Seuss.

But the “Poppy’s Chair” game will always remain,
Indelibly, lovingly imprinted on my brain.
Played often, it’s fun and quite a cardio workout.
It pays “divigrins” and helps keep me stout.

It strengthens the bond of grandfather-grandson.
To see that boy smile has become my “Job One”.
When “I’ve got Poppy’s chair!” resounds in my ear,
it means something much more than a game around here.

Lucas may never know that from the very start,
he could have had my chair…’cause he already had my heart.

Steve “Poppy” Alexander
October 23, 2008

 You can catch Yard Sale Mama, if you really wanna, on any given Saturday morn.
If the weather is right, she’ll be out before light.  To miss this would leave her forlorn.
If Arnold’s the Terminator, then Nancy’s the Accumulator, bringing home carloads of stuff.
She loves the wheeling and she loves the dealing.  She just can’t get enough.

Friday nights are plotting sessions, with newspaper ads and maps.
Neighborhoods determine the order of the hunt and where the good stuff’s at.
Fibromyalgia won’t let this Mama climb hills or steps anymore,
But that doesn’t keep this “Make-A-Deal Diva” from going door to door.

She’d yard sale several times a week, if she could have her druthers.
She rarely buys for herself anymore: it’s for grandchildren, me or others.
Things left over might just discover they’re under a Christmas tree,
or else she’ll list them on eBay, and turn them into green. 

 Nancy has a very discerning eye, spotting treasures among the trash.
One look at a sale can tell this female if she should stay or dash.
Hitting her groove, she stays on the move, outracing, outbidding the boys.
Time is money to this honey, but you sense it’s a labor of joys.

“Love” was the word I planned to use above, but Nancy came to my aid.
She spied “joys” in a backyard sale, so a deal was struck and made.
The asking price was a little high, but Yard Sale Mama pointed this out:
“joys” was used a lot during Christmas, so its lifespan is surely in doubt.

She got her wish, as she often does, being the master bargainer, she.
They were asking $5 dollars, but Nancy was firm and wound up paying three.
Words I can handle when she gets home; they are small and easily stored.
It’s the tables, recliners, bookcases and such that hardly fit through the door.
If my back can take it and I don’t break it and through the door it goes,
we’ve created another obstacle:  Where then does it repose?

Storage.  It’s a problem.  Stuff gets stuck wherever we can stick it.
I’ve suggested that she “Just Say No!” but the habit, she just can’t kick it.
We had a one-car garage one day, or at least that’s what I thought.
Now, one person can barely fit among all the treasures that she’s bought!
Our attic is full to overflowing and we’re about to suffocate.
When down it falls, we’ll probably ball, and then start to redecorate!

Yard sales are not for the faint of heart, nor for the late night owl.
You have to rise at the crack of dawn to find the deals that wow.
Strangers you meet on those dark morns, don’t remain strangers long.
It’s a camaraderie of bidders, you see, each trying to get stuff for a song.

If this is as bad as it gets, okay…my wife and her yard sales.
Compared with the ills of our society, this addiction really pales.
Go with my blessing, Yard Sale Mama.  Be safe.  Good luck to you.
But please…leave quietly in the morning, for my sleep is not through!

“Stay at Home” Steve Alexander
December 27, 2008