You’re all of wood, not one part steel.

Your wood is dense, and tough, and strong.

Your stem won’t break—it’s lasted long.

Your stem runs straight ‘neath my pressed thumb,

But then descends, no straight line plumb.

No, you curve upwards, just barely so

To best whip batter to and fro.

Swallows have that curve of wing,

Aerodynamic as anything!

Did you crack off, and lose a half?

Was this thing planned, or am I daft?

You still had use, though you had split?

And Papa carved round what’s left of it?

Though a half, you still worked good,

Oh, you staunch Norwegian wood!

And Mama, and her homespun spoon—-

With a hum or simple tune,

Batter for just anything—-

It coated you and wedding ring.

You heard sweet laughter, dodged salt tears.

As she stirred the dough—so many years!

First Arthur taken, then Papa too,

And a precious great grandson—were a few.

But stir the batter round and round!

And gradually the grief’s smoothed down.

So too, the lumps that come to every life,

Will all work down, with a spoon, not a knife.

“Now thank we all our God…”

they sang, those Stadems past. They shared a meal, bullheads, not cod,

With Mama’s bread—how it went fast!

Old thing, forgotten and now at rest,

You fed a multitude, you gave your best.

And your spots and wear tell me all I need— -

The Hand that carved you, did us a good deed.

Old-fashioned, homemade, unpainted, wood--

I’d still be like you if I could!

By Ronald Ginther, January 7, 2012