| Author | Message | ||
| SplinterGroup
Advanced Member Username: splinter Post Number: 1034 Registered: 11-2003 |
Papa and the Pond As a young man I remember my Dad had an interest, or as they say in Acadian French an “en vie” , a liking, for Oriental ideas, subjects and comfortable, suitable concepts that he could fit into a devoutly Catholic and gentle life. Nothing of a consuming nature, you understand, but a Far Eastern influence in his life nevertheless. Small goldfish ponds, Quiet contemplative places he’d dug around our home that he did his best to keep from leaking. They always did. Water soaking through the cracks between the mortar and the rough stones he’d placed so carefully leaving his handprints and fingermarks,,,,,, they're there still Water retreating into the rich Louisiana loam underneath. I helped from time to time with his “projects” when he could catch me before I could sneak off to all day fishing trips to other waters. Other waters. Yes. In other places. The “Mary Pond” was just such a one. He dug it. lined the bottom with wet concrete that he smoothed with his hands. The lime in the cement conspired with the sand in the concrete mortar and made his hands abraded, smooth,,,,,, gentle wearing down the epidermis. It accepted his hand’s prints as payment. The streaks, the valleys and peaks the little furrows he made,,,,, as I said that are still there. The Virgin Mary ceramic statue on top of a roughly broken pavement pedestal of some discarded redone civic improvement sidewalk against the background of appropriately enough a hedge of Chinese privet hedge he’d planted. Around the edge a small wall of those same broken stones. Sometimes when we worked he’d talk. “You know,” he’d said “The Virgin Mary is just like Kwan-Yin sorta. Kwan Yin is the Buddhist saint of Mercy and compassion, a protectress.” “Yes” I said agreeing but not really understanding. “Like Mama,” I went on. “Yes,” he said smiling and nodding his head surveying the work he’d just done.,,,,,,,,,,, “Exactly” “One day I hope you will be as lucky a man as I am.” I thought he was talking about the goldfish pond then. Forty and more years later I am beginning to understand the man. Understand just what he meant. Understanding his wish for me. | ||
| Barbara St. Aubrey
Member Username: elyse Post Number: 60 Registered: 01-2006 |
lovely - I could read your stories all day long - Nothing of a consuming nature, you understand, but a Far Eastern influence in his life nevertheless. I love it -- The lime in the cement conspired with the sand so right - a father conspiring with sand and lime and the Virgin and against, the pull of fishing with friends for time with his son so he could pass his wisdom along - the love ozzes throughout the whole thing. (Message edited by Elyse on February 10, 2006) | ||
| Emusing
Moderator Username: emusing Post Number: 2786 Registered: 08-2003 |
East meets West and Father meets Son and love gracefully tucked under the wing of a lesson. This is a classic Splinter. E | ||
| Morgan Lafay
Advanced Member Username: morganlafay Post Number: 1445 Registered: 08-2005 |
A wonderful loving story Splinter. Doesn't matter if it took 40 years to understand your dad; he left you something worthy and everlasting. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Senior Member Username: garyb Post Number: 6628 Registered: 07-2001 |
an angus drudging clay too hard for cotton or chicken feed on the day he taught his daughter to kiss. Everyone should have a father like that. Zen in the bayou, neat. Smiles. Gary A River Transformed The Dawg House December Fireweed | ||
| Zephyr
Senior Member Username: zephyr Post Number: 3823 Registered: 07-2003 |
As Gary said everyone should have a father like that...and every child should have a childhood like that. Freedom to find out for yourself and grow at own pace...priceless! This is a wonderful tribute to your Papa, and a favourite of mine!  | ||
| Lazarus
Advanced Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 1123 Registered: 10-2005 |
Wonderful work Splinta. Connections over connections. Great work with characters and place too. And the earth, bristling and raw, tiny and lost resumes its search; rushing through the vast astonishment- Ted Hughes, from His Legs Ran About. |
