Showing posts with label campfires. Show all posts
Showing posts with label campfires. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

A Saga of the First Pioneer Woman

Eons ago when rivers flowed clear and pure as
 ---------a Virgin's dreams,

The first pioneers pushed through the dense forest,
---------to drink from beaver dammed streams.

Times were hard and cruel, as these brave people
gave up more than strength, security, or an easy
family life,

As they journeyed into the unknown, with their
few possessions---in crudely built wooden wagons,
pulled by oxen, through the muddy, insect infested
forest, some had to wonder ----------if it was worth their strife.

They would stop before dark, then review the
rugged daily miles they had traveled,

Then the men would shout orders to their sons,
to feed and water all the livestock,
as the women rushed to do their chores,----
before the last light of day--
.-no time for nerves to become unraveled.

Romance---did not travel with them, in the
sense of stolen glances, sweet words,
or brief kisses----during the day,

It only appeared at night, around the cook
pots or campfires, but the time was so
brief the affects did not stay.

Prearranged marriages became the popular
mode, with our brave ancestors, on their journey
to a new environment,

Where weddings dresses, bride-maids and honeymoons
were not the daily requirements.

Most brides were chosen for their strong backs, for only
hard work would be theirs to endure,

Show of any love for them, became a nightly function,
which happened-----------fast and unsatisfied for the brides,
no romance to accrue.

The men, when sated would roll-over to sleep, to dream of
strong sons, to be born, from the best stud---a man,

To help with plowing, planting, harvesting of their
promised land, he would always need an extra hand.

Their wagons driven closely together for protection,----
more than friendship--because of frequent raids from the
Indians, who proved deadly,

After the dead were buried,---mostly the men---then the
remaining wives or daughters were abandoned to drive the
wagons, which became a medley.

With determination stamped on their brows, and eyes void
of emotion, while they searched the forest, plains, mountains
and valleys for the enemy,  as they stealthily made their way,

Praying for no more of a delay.

Child-birth on the journey proved dangerous, painful and

A Pioneer woman's fate, depended on the mid-wife,
whom were medically dedicated.

As labor could last for days, as the other wagons moved-on,
leaving the pregnant woman and the mid-wife alone and

Maybe some concerned husbands would stay behind to
protect their wives, but most husbands appeared unconcerned,
until the baby was born.

It was rare that a Pioneer woman felt the warmth of her
husband's arms,

Wrapped around her, as if she was a cherished being,
and was one of his charms.

The Pioneer woman, although she traveled and worked
as hard as her husband, was looked upon as a second
class citizen, to be seen not heard,

It was their fate to be silent, not to voice an opinion,
not a single word.

A female child was the mother's responsibility to rear,

Only a boy child was the father's to hold dear.

A daughter's only value to her father, was to be used as a
leverage, for securing a prosper marriage,

Her father hoped she would be beautiful enough to ride in
a richly drawn carriage.

Now, isn't it time to praise the brave women of the past,

Who pushed and plowed the fields, then cooked all the
meals, so, their families would not have to fast.

God Bless Them All! And may a Crown of Rubies
adorn their heads,
When Judgement Day, removes them from their
earthly beds.

I wrote this in 1993, on February 17th.

The reason I wrote this poem is because I had just started doing a research on my Ancestors. I went to bed every night worried about my Ancestors, especially the women. I wanted to know how they might have been treated. Maybe less than desirable, respected or loved.

And I got this information from books and movies of how the women were treated on wagon trains and living doing this era of  The Early Pioneers.

Writing this poem seemed to help me some---but the only event that could make a big difference would be if I could talk to some of them. I need a Time Machine--one that works, please.

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© BEPH  2011

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Updated March 1, 2012
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