Wide boards cut from virgin timber
By racing water-powered mills,
Nails of iron wrought by hand,
Ancient hinges working still.
* * * * * * * *
* * * * *
Westward moved our pioneer fathers,
Across New England to the Hudson,
Cleared the land with Friends and cousins,
Dined on potatoes, corn and venison.
Their trunk held quilts and dear essentials,
It was sometimes luggage, sometimes chair,
A furnishing for the new log cabin,
Like a family member there.
Once it held a diary,
The record of a family’s tossing
On a wooden ship with sails,
From Europe to a new world crossing.
Cracks in boards appeared at times,
Like the splits that came between
Patriots and Loyalists who raised rifles -
Stirring hatreds unforeseen.
War - like passion - often heedless
Of its consequential harms;
To the victors went the spoils:
The Loyalists’ beautiful, hard-built farms.
Again the trunk was heavily laden,
Again the treasures and quilts it bore,
Through Saratoga and finally northward
To Upper Canada’s southern shore.
New log cabins built and cherished
As shelter from the northern cold,
The chest’s quilts brought warmth and comfort
As our family roots took hold.
Soon homes, schools and a Meeting House
Graced the community in the new land.
Sawyers, joiners, and village smiths
Provided the means for them to stand.
In time the trunk - no longer needed -
Found its place in a farmhouse warm.
(The Andrus men had toiled to build it,
A marker on their prosperous farm).
Still deep inside the pine boards’ casing
Remained the treasure most had forgot:
The diary of those long-dead travelers
Who left England and their freedom sought.
