a poem in my pocket

My very much Dutch grandpa and grandma
each emigrated from Holland when they were young.
They fit American culture like a pair of wooden shoes.

Grandma followed in her Dutch Bible as Grandpa read aloud in English,
pointing to the text so I could pick out words like “Heere”, Lord.
And I knew the Lord listened when Grandpa prayed.

Grandma graciously served us rosettes and rusks on china saucers
with steaming tea or orange drink poured into matching tea cups.
We felt very special, listening in on grown-ups’ conversation.

Time of our vacation visits passed much too quickly
like the tick-tocking of their sitting room clock with
miniature figures of a boy and girl see-sawing the seconds away.

Grandpa rented Minnesota farmland; raised crops, livestock, two sons
and later, a dear daughter (who, in turn, raised my brother and I).
A gentle man with animals, he liked to tickle-torture us children.

Before bed, Grandma removed the squiggly hairpins
and let her braided bun fall down in silver ripples to her waist.
She would brush out her long locks while I watched, mesmerized.

On Sundays, she wore a stylish hat, black stockings and heels to church.
He dressed in a dark suit, handkerchief in breast pocket, and shiny black shoes.
Hard-working country folk transformed into classy lady and dignified gentleman!