It was once a busy little farm town, <br />Hwy #10 used to run straight through. <br />In the center of town was grain elevator <br />which ran along the railroad tracks. <br /> <br />There was a little park on the other side <br />with a band-shell; <br />a place we spent time during the 4th of July <br />and where we watched the Memorial Day Parade <br />once a year until I turned eight. <br />Along the same stretch was <br />a used car dealership where my dad worked <br />when the farm didn’t produce enough crop <br />to live on. <br /> <br />The creamery where we bought <br />fresh vanilla ice-cream made from <br />the cream of local dairy farms. <br /> <br />The pickle factory where grandma <br />sold gunny-sacks of pickles every year. <br />A little white clapboard building <br />where she sold her fresh eggs. <br /> <br />My bachelor uncle’s one bedroom tumbledown <br />house next to a one man gas station at the end of town. <br /> <br />Rockwell did his painting from small towns <br />like New York Mills. <br />In the name of progress they’ve torn down <br />those quaint memorable structures. <br />where I bought soda in glass bottles <br />and bags of salty peanuts.<br /><br />Joyce Chelmo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/new-york-mills-minnesota/
