The shanty by the dirt road
Was a most unlikely abode,
Tilted as though it may fall
With rusty tin roof and walls.

A graybeard lived in the shack
Far from the beaten track,
His hide browned by weather
Looked like wrinkled leather.

Sitting in a cane bottom chair
He could always be seen there
Leaned against his favorite tree
With whittling wood on his knee.

All day long he'd sit and whittle
His beard dyed by snuff spittle,
With just wood and pocket knife
He brought small figures to life.

Children would wait their turn,
Eager beavers wanted to learn
What toy he'd carved for them,
On a fantasy dreamlike whim.

He whittled birds and whirligigs
Smiling as he munched on figs,
Wood chips heaped on his feet
Meant kids were in for a treat.

Animals were for girls and boys
Dancing puppets and other toys,
There was joy in wide-eyed kids
With every fine art piece he did.

Long ago he went to Eden-land,
I cherish my toys from his hand
And when I close my eyes I see
Grandpa sitting under that tree.

©Written by: Kenneth J. Ellison 06-10-07

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