Some said she was a witch,
this mountain woman
who lived in a two-room house
with newspapered walls
Easy enough for a kid to believe
for loud conversations
drifted from her house on the hill
to the road below,
Signaled her coming
as she traveled on foot
everywhere she went,
Announced her presence when
she rested by the side of the road
She was always on speaking terms
with herself.
Tiptoeing past her house to school
a familiar voice filled me with dread
she was on the road ahead
and throwing rocks
My legs refused to move
"Look out, it's a snake!
But don't be skeert, I killt him."
My legs unthawed as I thanked her
for killing the snake, "instead of me",
I added to myself
If she had been packing the pistol
she called her peace maker,
I may have 'fainted dead away'
But Retta was not a person to be feared
The door of her tiny house
was always open to friends
With a cheerful grin as wide as her face
she'd invite them to stay and "set a spell"
"No need to rush off," she'd say as they left,
"You fellers come back real soon."
She asked for nothing but respect
It pleased her to feed the boys
who cut her firewood, a meal
of scrambled eggs and tomatoes
the best she had to offer
A dip of snuff was usually tucked inside her cheek
The apron she wore was useful for wiping her mouth
if ever the snuff should leak.
With deadly aim she'd send a stream of snuff
through the open door of her pot-bellied stove
and not miss a word of the tale she told
Sundays found her without the snuff
dressed in her Sunday best
on the second pew from the front
singing the songs she knew
with a hymnal opened at random
Eccentric, shy, opinionated,
with a quirky sense of humor,
whatever else she was,
a hypocrite she was not
With simple, childlike faith
and trust in God, she lived
as loyally as she knew how to do
So here's to you, Retta
Faithful in little, faithful in much,
I look forward to "setting a spell"
with you, my friend
in the home prepared for you
by your Beloved.
