Good Enough for Government Work

With all the union activity going on in Wisconsin, I am reminded of this poem I wrote in part after viewing curbstones in a small town that were stamped with 'WPA.' Also, this violin and the story behind it actually exists. It was the first instrument I learned to play on, although I remember my teacher hated it because I guess a Stradivarius it was not.

You couldn't have told anyone in my family that.

Initially published in the Spoon River Poetry Review:

Adagirl No. 1
(inscription found on the inside of an old violin)

Washed free of the fields, now only to bake bread
and wipe the faces of her children,
my grandmother still kept
a garden, and sang songs
of frivolous things like lemon trees
while her husband sat and ate.

It was 1931 and the picture was not that rosy.
They ate potatoes, shuttered windows,
kept a bible near.
Town fathers placed wayside cornerstones
Grandpa engraved for the WPA.

Still, there was Grandma's pastry - flaky as new air,
smelling faintly of fresh lemons.

That was the year Grandpa made the violin -
stowed in a corner of the cellar
with a room full of canned goods.
Carved and whittled the spine and waist and body
of sweet cedar, fitted and preserved
with rosin & wood lacquer.

Strung her so she sang sound as any fine instrument.