P.G.D. The Legend, Chapter One, arrival, survival

This is a poem I wrote for my dad’s 98th birthday at this time last year. As it turned out it was his last birthday as he died last summer. I call it my (mind’s) eyewitness account of his birth. His name was Peter George Douglas Armour, his dad’s name was Ponton Armour or Pont for short. His moms’ name was Grace, nee Magann, but everyone called her Babs. My granny Babs was a woman so gifted by God in the bosom department that she gave her breasts names. They were called Maude and Emily and she included them as members of the family in conversation quite often.

The third of March came, cold and raw, a lion like Nor’Wester.

In utero Babs’ babe did paw. The strength of him impressed her.

He turned and twisted, punched and kicked. He dipped. He dove. He darted,

As if he knew this date he’d picked. Thus labour was kick-started.

Babs was at heart a country girl. She’d use no kitchen table.

Delivery for her’d unfurl out in the horses stable.

And in those rustic olden days there was no epidural.

What medicine could cast a haze? Scotch whisky was the cure-all.

With midwife barking orders out, t’was Ponts’ appointed task

To calm his wife and quell her doubt and ration out the flask.

Like March, that entered like a lion, that babe showed power rare.

With flask in hand Pont saw his scion, then gulped the lions’ share.

Young P.G.D. would not be still. He mauled Babs like a felon.

Poor Ponton gulped another swill. That head was like a melon.

But Babs displayed “Amazing Grace” and rose to the occasion.

She added to the human race one babe of male persuasion.

And there beside the horse and goats she held the babe in her lap

Then took an empty sack of oats and swaddled him in burlap.

She laid him in a manger on a bed of sweetest hay.

That should have held no danger, but the horse began to neigh.

Then it took the burlap swaddling of the baby in its teeth.

And it tossed him, with no coddling, to get what was underneath.

Young P.G.D.’ s trajectory described a graceful arc.

One needed no directory to see just where he’d park.

Now Pont had tried to warn Babs off. Perhaps she should have listened,

But babe plopped in the water trough. Thus P.G.D. was Christened.

Babs plucked him out with movement deft. She clutched him to her bosom.

The midwife cried “He’s in the cleft. For Gods’ sake Babs, don’t lose him.”

But P.G.D. had found his niche with Maude and Em as neighbours.

As happy as an egg in quiche, he thanked Mom for her labours.