"Making Things "Greg Budig 2020
The simple act.
Grandmother's recipe.
Handed to you on yellowed
paper in her own fragile
soft pencil handwriting
It traveled from Germany.
Or maybe from Africa.
So many memories of
where you once came.
Making things.
Planting the garden.
Turning the soil.
Watching it grow.
Butchering hogs .
Nothing is wasted.
The family gathers to
continue the ritual.
Searching for blueberries.
Ice cream buckets full.
Making things.
Boxes of jars brought
up from the basement.
Sterilized with rings
and a bunch of new lids.
The canner sits waiting,
shiny black with white
speckles, on the
stove top with its old
tarnished basket inside.
Making things.
The sharp smell of
vinegar and freshly
sliced cucumbers.
Pickling salt, onions,
garlic and dill.
Steam from the canner
rolls high in the kitchen.
Pull out the jars carefully,
wait for the lids to go pop.
Making things.
Pork shoulder chopped.
Seasoned and mixed.
Black pepper, salt with
marjoram and garlic.
Coarsely ground in
the grinder to make
fresh kielbasa.
My grandfathers used
to do this by hand.
Making things.
Cleaning the casings.
Rinse the intestines
like water balloons.
Threaded on the horn.
Turning the crank as
the minced meat fills
the links tightly.
Hung in the apple wood
smoker for hours.
Making things.
Selecting the fabrics
or old family clothing.
Cut into patterns reflecting
the past. Log cabin, bear
claw, broken dishes,
nordic star. Traditional
designs changed and
made new.
Stretched on a frame.
Making things.
Hands keeping busy.
Traditions kept alive.
Generation to generation,
you hope they're passed
down. The art of making
sausage, making pickles,
making wine. Canning
preserves, stitching quilts,
things done by hand.
Making things.
The End
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