Sally's Week

Eighty Years of Sally

In Schenectady a girl arrived, with plans and quite a smile,
Then Pownal, Vermont, claimed her, and she stayed there a good while.
At Pine Cobble she learned her ABCs,
And learned that mud's a friend, and so are cows and trees.

Each summer was the River, Goose Island's pink-gray shore,
Where she has watched the St. Lawrence sparkle for eighty years and more.
Now mornings find her at the window, coffee warm in hand,
The water wide, the screen aglow, the best seat in the land.

In Riverdale, with Granny and Pappa Dodge she stayed,
Then Bennington and Wells, and then a bold escape she made
To Lugano, where she gathered tongues like others gather shells.
(She can say "I love you" in more languages than Babel tells.)

She stood on the Manhattan docks, a welcoming face,
Helping students find their way in a brand new place.
In any language needed, she would point and smile and say,
"The subway's that way, darling. You're going to be okay."

Back to the land she came, a farmer, proud and glad,
To Quarry Hill Farm, where Chris and Matthew ran like mad.
They climbed and fell and fed the stock and learned from her the way:
"Know the folks who grow your food," and that's still what we say.

The Mountain Goat stores opened, and the local farms all cheered,
She guards the soil, she guards the land, and so she is revered.
And in New York she sits with the Cleveland H. Dodge Trust,
Keeping Great-Great-Grandfather's good works going, as she must.

Now Dale and Sally live in Arlington, beneath Mount Equinox,
At a place they call Hotel California (it has no lobby clocks),
Where you can check out any time, but why would you, that's right?
They ski through Dorset, Peru, Landgrove, in the clear cold light.

And at their feet, a golden crowd, a parade of fur and cheer:
Trueheart, Woody, Jasper, Birkie, all of whom she holds dear,
And Elsa, the smallest, who is sure she is in charge.
(She is correct. The treat pocket is large.)

And Hattan, Freddie, grandkids, all think you hung the moon,
And Chris and Matthew, grown but yours, still hum the same old tune.
So this week, from all of us who love you through and through,
Open one door each morning, Mom. Every one is for you.

Eighty years of Sally. And the best, we think, is still to come.

Happy 80th, Mom.