Through life I have had many mentors. The first I remember was a man some ten years my senior who took me fishing. I was not old enough to drive myself at the time, but I learned to recognize the sound of his car coming up the road. I didn't even have to look, I gathered my fishing equipment and stood at the ready in our driveway. He talked as we fihed and shared hios wisdom of the outdoors and life.
The next was a literature teacher in college who was kind enough to secure an interview for me with the head of the department when he was directing a play about which I was writing a paper. I did not realize at the time what an honor and privilege that was. I made an A on that paper and it was my first experience with true writing.
Today I recognize that I am mentored by many, but there is one who is always constant. I have learned to accept her wisdom even when it does not make me very happy. She is honest and that is the number one trait of a true mentor.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Memories
We sold my Mother's house yesterday. I hope the new owner receives as much joy as our family did. My Father started building it when he returned from the Korean War. Through the last sixty years it has seen it's share of love and joy, arguments and heartache. News of weddings and divorce, births and deaths, storms and tornadoes.
What it has given up is memories. Memories of good times and bad all shared by family. I helped build the room upstairs, holding the Sheetrock with a long T shaped stick my Father made because I was to short to reach the ceiling, even though it was only six feet high. The broken brick in the living room hearth was my fault. I was pounding on a log trying to make kindling when it broke.
The holes out behind the metal shop were dug by my dog, Smokey. The same one who refused to eat when I was gone one week during the summer. He dug the holes and laid in them until I returned.
Out back we shot fireworks and beside the western side of the house there is a breeze that flows through all summer, a great place to sit while you wait for the stars.
The metal building was where we re-built my first car. A 1953 Chevrolet Bel air convertible that would not shift out of second gear when we purchased it in Knoxville. We drove it home that night in second gear and immediately began tearing it apart. I was only fourteen. We had it completely restored in time for my drivers test.
May it bring you joy and peace.
What it has given up is memories. Memories of good times and bad all shared by family. I helped build the room upstairs, holding the Sheetrock with a long T shaped stick my Father made because I was to short to reach the ceiling, even though it was only six feet high. The broken brick in the living room hearth was my fault. I was pounding on a log trying to make kindling when it broke.
The holes out behind the metal shop were dug by my dog, Smokey. The same one who refused to eat when I was gone one week during the summer. He dug the holes and laid in them until I returned.
Out back we shot fireworks and beside the western side of the house there is a breeze that flows through all summer, a great place to sit while you wait for the stars.
The metal building was where we re-built my first car. A 1953 Chevrolet Bel air convertible that would not shift out of second gear when we purchased it in Knoxville. We drove it home that night in second gear and immediately began tearing it apart. I was only fourteen. We had it completely restored in time for my drivers test.
May it bring you joy and peace.
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