Nothing could ever please my father more
Than having all his grandfolk tag along
To help him in the doing of each chore.
His work was done much better with a throng
Of little people dashing here and there
And everywhere, each clamoring for a turn
At everything from riding Kate, the mare,
To turning the handle on the frothing churn.
When he had sent my mother to rest from noise
One rainy day, and, with his broadest smile,
Had settled down knee-deep in girls and boys
To turn the sausage grinder for a while,
The least one made his happiness complete.
“Granddaddy,” she observed, “is churning meat.”
–From Halfway Up the Sky (written in August 1949)