Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Strudel Makers

They are disappearing.
The old men who sit at counters and order nickel coffee
and tell their war stories of bravery against Nazis.
The women who drive Cadillacs and smell of perfume
and carry wooden canes.
The ones who ran hair salons out of their basements
and bought properties for just the taxes owed.
The ones who knew how to scrimp and save
and make the best peach cobbler ever created.
The ones who aren’t scared of these young thugs you see on the corners.
They’ll tell them to “straighten up and pull up their pants.”
Tell them they’re “acting the fool.”
I’ve heard them say so too.
I’ve heard them say things I would be scared to say,
these grandmothers will lavender hair
wearing the finest feather hats.
They sit in church and know what’s what.
They’ll grab a stick and whip you good.
They come from hearty stock.
Not like now.
Now, we are made of paper
and tin foil,
fast food,
disposable living,
blowing in the wind.
A watery stock susceptible to every disease,
virus,
and pill on the market.
They got by on liniments and creams,
Tonics passed down from mother to mother.
They never needed the assault of drugs we seem to need just to survive a day.
The strudel makers.
The ones with the touch.
The ones who could make chicken soup that was real
not out of a can.
The ones who learned from their mothers
and their mothers beforehand.
They are disappearing.
The original pasta makers,
and bread makers,
and pickle makers.
The ones who put quality ahead of price
and valued their name more than anything else.
Soon they will be gone.
And we will be left with a generation whose
only accomplishment is that they know how to “tweet.”