Time On Our Hands: Thoughts of Another Time
I collect group pictures of children from the past. Whether in school, at a club meeting or some other event, I love to study them, their faces so full of promise, lined up haphazardly and looking hopefully into the camera's lens. They seem to be throwing nets out to the future to see what they might glean. I wonder what they would say to me if they knew I was watching them in the schoolyard so many many years later. I would like to share these photos and what they bring to my mind.
Dedication
My site is dedicated to my father, Roy, who taught me the meaning of the word "craft". He was a man always interested, always full of questions and always willing to try to fix or build or maintain. He grew up amidst the tall trees of a national forest, in a time when keeping your hands busy wasn't a choice but a necessity. If your hands weren't busy, you would starve, freeze or both! Most people my age say of their fathers, "He could fix anything!" That was a special thing about many boys who grew up in the 1920s and 30s. They had to chop and haul wood to stay warm, they had to fix their toys and, later, their tools or do without. They grew up able. My own father grew up to be an engineer. He really could fix anything. I'm sure of it.
In the fall of 2003, the year I moved to the Northwest to be nearer my aging parents, I wrote this poem about my Father.
My Dad
My dad was around when I was born.
He was around as long as I can remember.
He was tall as a tree and stronger.
He could lift me up over his head.
He taught me things like how to hammer,
How to mow, change a tire, clean a fish,
And how to be brave.
He taught me a lot by example:
A good work ethic, kindness,
That it isn't nerdy to be polite,
And that love is patient.
He keeps teaching me even today.
He is 82.
He teaches me that I am nice, that I have
Goodness in me and that I really can be patient
By letting me practice on him.
He believes he will be with us after death.
He told me. I know it must be true.
My dad believes in the goodness of craft,
The wisdom of using one’s own hands,
The importance of making each day count,
And being accountable for each day.
My dad has soft hands and a sweet smile.
His hair has been white for a very long time.
I love my dad very much.
I hope he knows.
I hope he knows that his strength has helped me
Through a lot of valleys and hard climbs.
I knew he would always be there.
My dad.
What a guy.
Then later, when he passed away, I wrote this poem for his funeral program.
I took a walk with an angel
Last night, under a silvery moon.
I said to the angel, “Please tell my father
That I will be seeing him soon.
"Please tell my Dad that I love him;
His soft hand I feel in my own,
His heart still beats in my heart,
And I’ll never again feel alone.
"Please thank my father for loving me,
For teaching me so many things—
For patience, his guidance and example
And the shower of joy sharing brings.
"I remember he taught me to whittle and fish
And the importance of being polite.
He said I had goodness by nature,
That inside each of us glows a light.
"This light will shine on forever.
He told me, that’s how I know.
On dark days his star shines upon me,
A twinkle is his sweet hello."
And then the angel left me
In the light of that shimmery moon.
I trust that he found my father
And starlight will comfort me soon.
I miss Dad every day. Here he is, saying Hello, or maybe Goodbye. Either way, he is surely watching over me. I hope you enjoy my site.
I would love to have you visit my other blog. It's a special spot where I post things I have written including stories, poems and essays. Come on by if you have time!
http://mrsgslifeinparadise.blogspot.com
Thanks for visiting today!
