The Pie
(With apologies to William Blake “The Lamb”)
Berry Pie, who made you?
Do you know who made you?
Picked the berries right out back;
red ones, blue ones, even black;
rolled the crust out smooth and thin;
mixed the filling, poured it in;
put you in an oven hot;
Homemade Pie-- you hit the spot!
Berry pie, who made you?
Do you know who made you?
Berry Pie, I’ll tell you
Yummy Pie, I’ll tell you.
Sarah is the person’s name.
She lives way up in Rangeley, Maine.
All year long she makes us pies,
breads and cakes of every size.
In the coldest ice and snows,
the fire in her wood-stove glows.
And when it comes to late July--
we’re glad to see you, Berry Pie!
We’d all like a plateful.
Sarah, we are grateful.
Don’t forget to check out the Rangeley Public Library
My husband and his family have vacationed in Rangeley (in the western mountains of Maine) since he was a boy; now we still go every year with our own children.
The poem below, “The Pie,” was written in honor of Sarah Davenport who lived in Rangeley her entire life (1925-2002). One of Sarah’s first jobs was cooking lunches (with homemade breads and desserts!) for the town schoolchildren. She later opened a bakery in her home which kept both vacationers and locals happy with pies, cakes, and breads for many years. The memory of Sarah’s warmth, and the sweetness of her baked goods, lives on.
Rangeley Lake, photo by Steven Shapiro
Rangeley Lake in winter, Steven Shapiro
