Goose Hollow Tree Farm

Goose Hollow, Georgia

by
Gail Malone Poole
gailmpoole@gmail.com
April, 2000 Revised June, 2005

A birthday gift to my father, Roy Malone
Dedicated to both my parents, Roy and Sarah Malone
for making home a place to which I love to return

Photo Link: Bins and Clay, No. 9664 by Stormy Water

I did not think that the woods could call so clearly
That my heart would remember and long so dearly for a piece of land
That the forest and fields, my companions as a child
Would come calling in my dreams and drive me wild
For the sight of huddled pines and patient planted rows.

I thought their voices had grown tired and old
That faraway places had turned cold my desire for girlhood haunts
That my treetop lookout could be replaced by a plane
And cobbled alleys were more exciting than my deep rutted lane
Where I strolled with no destination.

I thought the stream could no longer sing me its song
That sambas played loud and long enough would hush its lullabies
That I would forget the sound and the smell and the feel in my hair
Of the breathless, sweet, sensual southern air
That made me sing to unmet lovers and dance for myself.

I thought that a visit would be all that I'd need
That yellow daffodils, picked and breathed would quiet the voices.
But instead their scent follows, whispering, each time I go away
That my heart belongs at home, where the red Georgia clay
Marks me as its own.

Would I But Woo Thee

A Shakespearian sonnet written for a high school assignment in 1971-1972.
It reflected the social mores of the time. The Shakespearian style is departed from on the last line which ends with a dash of Georgia dialect.

Photo Link: Waiting - Green Chair, No. 9057 by Stormy Water

But by that time late in our years
When life has fairly passed us by
Thy dim eye could not discern the tears
That alone shine in my eye.

So care I not for what they say
Now about how brash I may seem.
Instead I'll chase thee everyday
And force my way into thy dream.

Tis true to say, though you may deny
This way tis quicker my… Sugar Pie!

In the beginning, it was a row crop, livestock farm known as Spring Haven Farm.

Papa married Mama back in 1950 and brought her to his beloved farm and a little shack with no running water and no phone. Mama quit her job as a registered nurse to partner with Papa in building a farm and raising a family. Within 5 years the 4 of us were born - Pam, James, Gail (that's me), and Pat.

We learned a lot growing up on that farm.

Papa and Mama took us regularly to Mount Carmel church. We have three-year perfect attendance pins to attest to that. Papa and Mama taught Sunday school classes and as I sat snuggled under his arm during service, I always noticed when the plate was passed that Papa pressed a check into it - no matter how hard times were. Mama made sure we had tithing banks and knew how to use them. We always prayed before a meal and Mama had Bible study at home. I never heard them lie, or speak ill of others while we were growing up. I observed them give more than necessary in business dealings and turn down money offered for favors. By example, they lived their faith. We learned God's place in our lives.

From earliest memories, we all worked in the fields. We hoed weeds out of the hot dusty rows of cotton and corn. We picked cotton and black-eyed peas and butter beans along with the help in the field and were paid wages just like the help. The only difference was, we rarely got to keep ours. "You made $1.50 today! I'll put that in the bank for you." Much ado was made over our savings and periodically we all got to review our savings account balances. Many years later the money was used to buy a car when each of us finished college. We learned to work and save.

Whenever anyone came to the door around lunch, Papa always greeted them with, "Come on in, there's plenty in the oven." This was not always true but Mama always made it appear to be. At times, neighbors came to the door with worried looks and sagging shoulders. After sitting with Papa, they would leave with a look of hope and straightened backs. Often I didn't know what had transpired, but I knew he had given of his time and perhaps his money for a friend. No matter how hard times were, at Christmas, Mama had always bought dolls and trucks and candy for the farm help's children. After we had our Christmas, we carried their gifts to them. We learned the joy of giving.

Whenever there was work to be done, Papa or Mama, worked with us, teaching us how to do things "the right way, the first time". Papa's words of encouragement went something like this, "Here, you've got to hustle up. Let me show you how to use two hands with those peas. If we get through before dusk, I'll take you to the lake to swim." I can still remember how it felt to be bone tired, filthy from head to toe, and starving after a day in the field but exhilarated with the idea of a cool swim that would sweep away the dust and the ache and revive the spirit. We learned to work first and then play hard.

While summer rains drifted down at twilight, we listened to bear tales on the porch. Stories of fantasy and adventure and fun. Then we were carried to bed on Papa's shoulders. At regular family reunions, we listened to the "old folks" talk and heard stories of extreme poverty and fun. We heard recountings of starting with nothing and building a home we all were proud of. We heard over and over, the value of hard work and education woven into the tales and lives of our parents and others they held up to us. We sat one on one with Papa and Mama and explored our dreams and poured out frustrations at the breakfast table and they listened. They encouraged. They were always there. We learned we were loved and we could do anything we set our mind to.

By Gail Malone Poole - approx 1998