The Touch of the Master’s Hand
‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin But he
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We bought our place in the foothills of the Rockies. First impressions are very different for each of us. I was particularly impressed with how, on 5 acres, we had what could almost be considered a coastal rainforest, and on the upper side of the escarpment, a semi-arid pasture. Tough prairie grass, that greens after rain and turns brown a few weeks after. It will cycle several times a season.
The Broken Timber lies like a fallen soldier beside his comrade that is still valiantly defying age. Both trees are in the lower escarpment, or the “rain forest”. These old soldiers have a girth four times what the younger trees surrounding them have. Yet the old boys are only two thirds as tall. I have no doubt that a hundred years ago they were magnificent specimens. Today the one left standing shows evidence of better years gone by. The fallen one was destroyed from the inside out. It appears some bug or parasite worked at the old soldier, took out the inner strength, and one day the chinook winds howled and took him down.
My name is Don. My wife is Lucille. We are known as Baby Boomers. We both grew up on the prairies of central Canada but now live on an acreage in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
I was not great in school. My spelling was mediocre. My penmanship atrocious. A failing mark indicated my lack of understanding of the fundamentals of grammar. I grimaced at the school period that involved any of the above. My only contribution to Language Arts was composition.
I lived on a farm and went to grade school in a small country school. Starting with ninth grade I attended the Landmark Collegiate in our nearest town. Fathom that. A homespun tow-headed farm kid, riding a yellow school bus to town. A town with a general store. And attending a Collegiate, with a gymnasium!
My Language Arts teacher was soon to realize my eighth-grade marks were actually as accurate as they were unimpressive. Then one day, with a very sombre look on her face, she “hauled” me into what was known as the guidance room. It was a nondescript little room resembling a cell in a county jail. It had a singular ambiance. That being to point out the error of our ways.
Miss J looked sternly across this cold steel desk that separated authority from the guilty.
“From where did you copy the essay? Copying essays is cheating. I am very concerned,” were the charges laid. Don had produced an essay that in no way reflected his complete dislike for the language and grammar program.
I stuttered and stammered. “Miss J, I didn’t copy it. I wrote it. I did get some ideas from things I have read, but I didn’t copy it from anywhere.”
With that, Miss J’s countenance went wild. She did a really great job of recomposing herself, stating “Don, that’s a 9/10 mark. That’s fantastic!”
So, I had learned a few lessons. Our aptitudes and potential are not always as they appear.
Some of that is what has held my fascination throughout my life. I had a friend who has passed on, who was fascinated with mechanical things. And people. I was fascinated with people. And mechanical things.
My father taught, “Convince a man against his will…He’s of the same opinion still.” The object of this Blog is not to convince anyone. It is however going to “hopefully” inspire thought.
When you, the reader, don’t agree, don’t worry. I’ve been known to be wrong. Many, many times. I am not the authority on right and wrong.
‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin But he
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Quite a number of years ago I had an acquaintance whose first language was not English. The individual used the
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