Writers' Corner

If you have a poem, song lyrics or a short story and you would like to share it with the readers of The Statesman now is your chance.

Email or mail us your submission and look for it in an upcoming issue of The Statesman.
  WILL WE LIVE IN VAIN?
Driving down a country lane,
Seeing trees at a distance,
Will they grow in vain?
One man comes along
And selects a tree - very strong
He cuts it down
And takes it to town.
There he trims, cutting every limb.
Another man comes along
And buys it as a post, slender and long.
In the ground it goes,
For how long, nobody knows.
Now it's part of a fence,
Down that country lane.
The tree did not grow in vain.
Years and years go on;
The post is old and alone.
Pulled up and replaced;
Another post takes its place.
Merely thrown away
To another place to stay.
Years go by again and again -
Maybe ten;
Another man spots that old post
And sees a cross at no cost.
No matter how old,
It's displayed - very bold.
It's a symbol of Jesus' love,
A gift from above.
People in a crowd ..
Do you ever wonder if they have a purpose in life?
Will they live in vain?

This poem is about a tree, cut down and made into a cross. The tree was approximately ten years old - made into a fence post for 30 years, and then discarded for ten more years. The wood was fifty years old before being made into a cross.

"God uses all things for the good who have been called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28 NIV)

"Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?" (Job 12:12 NIV)

-- Darian Jones

CLEANING THE GRANARY

Not all spring cleaning on the farm was in the attic or the garage. Most all the farms around had a building called a granary where wheat, corn, oats, soy beans, etc. were stored. In the fall it was bulging and the grains were fed out over the winter months until by spring there was little left, and it fell to us kids to clean the granary before the new harvest season began.

It was not a job we looked forward to, really, but it was interesting, and also smelly. Sometimes mice would get in, although it was screened on the inside to prevent that, but mice do find the way in, in spite of all precautions, and of course, like mice do, they multiplied and by the time we got around to cleaning it, sometimes lots of mice!

When Brother and I went to work on it there was little grain left, but in the main bin, a sort of single layer of corn, cobs, shattered kernels, etc., covered the floor, and here's where the mice hid.

We had what we thought was a brilliant idea. We brought in the farm cats to help. We'd move some of the ears of corn and cobs around, the cats would pounce and we had a mouse out of the way. This worked great at first, but after a time or two, the cats were full up with mice, and tired of the game, and it was up to us from there on.

Brother grabbed one by the tail, but he didn't get its feet off the floor quick enough and it turned and bit his finger. Of course, he howled and let it go!

He was still un-nerved by that experience when I picked up an ear of corn and a mouse jumped from under it and ran up his pants leg. Then, he did the funniest dance I've ever seen, and the only one I know of where the dancer shed his pants at the same time!

Who says kids don't have fun on the farm?

-- Dorothy Birdwell
OLD FRIENDS
Sometimes when I am lonely,
  and need a friend or two;
I think about the people
  whom as a child I knew.
I remember happy faces,
  on a summer day,
I remember lemonade stands,
  and places we would play.
The weather didn't matter;
  there were always things to do;
Fly kites in windy weather,
  or build a snow igloo.
We talked of growing older,
  and all the things we'd do;
We had great ambitions,
  and in our hearts we knew;

That we would be together,
  no matter where we'd go;
But we were only children,
  so how were we to know?
Changes come no matter
  what we do or say;
And we are not the same now,
  as we were on that day.
The years have come between us,
  and made us drift apart.
But with my memories, I know,
  they'll be forever in my heart.
          -- Cindy Suddarth