This poem was written by my mother, whom I give credit for being the consummate mother in every way it can be defined. She went to school in a one room schoolhouse that had only one teacher for all grades. Although, only able to manage going through the 5th grade, I think you as a reader, will realize there was far more to her than those 5 years and the teacher of life she became to her children and all who were touched by her goodness.
Born in a coal mining camp under harsh circumstances, she didn’t learn to be tough, but learned to observe and became a person from within that was respected and admired by all who came to know her. She died at 82 having never tasted alcohol or tobacco. She was one of a kind. The Tacketts were a rare and humble breed and had a remarkable sense of self and of the world around them.
I will post more of her works from time to time. She dedicated this poem to me, and now I dedicate it back to her in memory of a loving mother and a one of a kind woman, great among the many. No one I knew then or since, held life in perspective as she did. RIP dear Mother. This is for you.
HE MAY BE RICHER THAN YOU
In faded shirt and shoes well worn,
The old man feels content and hale.
Home is a shack with curtains torn,
And walls that creak when winds assail.
Yet one day in the old one’s shoe,
And you dear friend would surely find,
He has less ways and means than you,
And less to complicate his mind.
He has a grit unmatched by all,
He’s proud to be of modest birth,
Reveres all things however small
That God has placed upon the earth.
So, don’t be hasty to decide
That wealth and fame are better far.
He may be poor but satisfied,
That he is richer than you are.