A dusty road, a little child;
Blackberry vines, growing wild.
Mama's old house, tire swing in the tree;
A few of the memories so special to me.

Ice on the pond, kids on the ice;
New hay in the barn, the smell so nice.
Bossy old milk cow, frisky young cat;
Pigs in the wallow, all sleepy and fat.

Harvest moon golden, Mama! Come see!
Wood on the front porch, a fire soon to be.
Hop in the feather bed, snuggle and then;
Mama will tell of "The Little Red Hen."

Roses in summer, persimmons in fall;
Violets in springtime, a redbird's clear call.
Mama grew flowers, Papa hoed corn;
And off in the distance, a deer hunter's horn.

Mama's front room, sleep was so sweet;
Quilts in the quilt box, all folded and neat.
Saucers and cups, collected from afar;
Bright, shiny buttons in a Mason jar.

Family reunions, quiet Sunday rest;
Walking to church, dressed up in our best.
Fifth Sunday meetings, singing all day;
Those things are gone now, lost on the way.

But memories are ours, forever to hold;
Tucked in our hearts, just as precious as gold.
Like toys on the shelf, we store them away;
Knowing we'll need them some other day.

Patti Page White