Sweet Potato Pie...c/p

Joe was the ol' mans name.

He hailed from the land of

Magnolia blosoms,

wrap-around-porches and

Sweet Potato Pie.

A slow southern drawl,

thick as honey.

He sported a hand carved walking cane.

"Made this here one myse'f

when I wuz jus' ten," he boasted.

Ol' Joe smoked like a chimney stack.

Cherry scented, cheap cigar smoke

hung heavy in the air like a rain cloud.

Thick,yellowed nails from years of puffing.

His long, slender fingers

curled around the smelly stogie.

"Been smokin' since I wuz a young one,"

as he took another drag.

He walked with a slight limp.

But that didn't keep him

from his daily mile walk to town

to fetch his newspaper.

How ol' Joe loved to read.

With his horn rimmed glasses

perched on his nose.

"Learnt t' read b'for O could write,"

he flashed a toothless grin.

Ol' Joe sure could cook up a storm.

The smell of chicken frying

and corn muffins baking

permeated the entire house.

And that Sweet Potatoe Pie-

what dreams are made of!

Every Saturday he'd call me on up

to his small, but tidy place.

We'd gorge ourselves till nearly ill!

"When Mama died, I got t' cookin."

Eyes bright as a noon day sun,

with a wit to match.

Nothing slipped by ol' Joe.

Oh, and what stories he would tell!

"I 'memeber a time when...",he always started.

And I knew I was in for a treat.

True or not,

didn't matter much.

He liked to embellish.

I knew that too,

but never let on.

When holidays rolled around

ol' Joe was the life of the party.

Dancing in the rain on Labor Day.

Handing out candy to the kids

on Halloween, adding

" better show me some tricks

for this here treat,"

he'd roar through his monster mask.

Ol' Joe wasn't much on giving gifts

at Christmastime, except to me.

I always got a bottle of cologne,

with some fancy French name

I couldn't even say.

Don't even make it anymore.

His favorite time of year was always

the hot and steamy days of summer.

We'd sit out on the porch,

sipping homemade iced tea

with real lemon slices floating on top-

none of that instant stuff.

I felt lucky, real lucky if

ol' Joe would have some of that

luscious Sweet Potato Pie left over.

A taste so rich and creamy,

with just a hint of lemon.

He refused to tell the secret.

"This here wuz granmamas recipie,"

he'd shoot me a wide smile.

One night last winter

ol' Joe died in his sleep,

peacefully I pray.

They found him slumped over

in his favorite chair,

clutching "A Road Less Traveled."

Heart failure they said.

He was a young eighty seven.

I remember him telling me,

"It ain't the dying that's hard,

it's the livin'."

My friend told me alot of things...

But he never did reveal

the recipie for his

Sweet Potatoe Pie.

*I made a few changes from the original, Rhonda pointed out a few cliches'...even though they seemed to fit so well....adieu cliches'...touche'...

anything else need to go? LOL,Char