Quote from Forum Archives on September 30, 2002, 9:53 am

Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>

 

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital
near Dundee, Scotland, it was felt that she had nothing left of
any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meager
possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so
impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every
nurse in the hospital.  One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The
old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the
Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland
Association for Mental Health.  A slide presentation has also been
made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem......And this little
old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now
the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet.
Goes to show that we all leave "SOME footprints in time".

 

An Old Lady's Poem

 

What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?

 

A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"

 

Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.....
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill....

 

Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

 

I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.

 

A bride soon at twenty-my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.

 

A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.

 

At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.

 

For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old woman ... and nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.

 

The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.

 

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years ....all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

 

So open your eyes, nurses, open and see, ...
NOT A CRABBY OLD LADY, BUT ME!!!

 

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might
brush aside without looking at the young soul within......We will
one day be there, too.

 

<><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><   <><  <><

 

~**Grandma's Apron**~

 

When I used to visit Grandma.
I was very much impressed,
by her all-purpose apron,
and the power it possessed.
For Grandma, it was everyday
to choose one when she dressed.
The strings were tied and freshly washed,
and maybe even pressed.
The simple apron that it was,
you would never think about;
the things she used it for,
that made it look worn out.

 

She used it for a basket,
 when she gathered up the eggs,
and flapped it as a weapon,
when hens pecked her feet and legs. 
She used it to carry kindling
when she stoked the kitchen fire.
And to hold a load of laundry,
or to wipe the clothesline wire.
She used it for a hot pad,
to remove a steaming pan,
and when her brow was heated,
she used it for a fan.
It dried our childish tears,
when we'd scrape a knee and cry,
and made a hiding place
when the little ones were shy.
Farm produce took in season,
in the summer, spring and fall,
found its way into the kitchen
from Grandma's carry all.
When Grandma went to heaven,
God said she now could rest.
I'm sure the apron she chose that day,
was her Sunday best.

 

Have a Blessed Day
Barbara and Dave

 

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