Nelson Mandela, with Robben Island prison in background.
I mailed a card on Saturday-- a beautiful card, rich in color and texture; an elegant card, sincere in verse and sentiment; a card made by the skilled hands of my daughter; a card made for South Africa's father. A card for Nelson Mandela.
All the world weep for Nelson Mandela--weep with sorrow for an aging warrior, strong in spirit and brave in heart. Weep with sadness for an ailing leader, weep as he lay silent in a hospital bed. Weep for Nelson Mandela.
All the world cry for Nelson Mandela-- cry tears of shame for his years in prison, years in darkness and despair. Cry tears of regret as he bears his injustice--with quiet dignity and humble grace. Cry tears of gratitude for his forgiveness...Forgiveness that none deserve. Cry for Nelson Mandela.
All the world sing for Nelson Mandela--sing in harmony to comfort him; sing softly now to soothe his brow; sing with uplifted voices to warm his heart. Sing him home again. Sing for Nelson Mandela.
And when at last his weary soul departs this earthly realm,
All the world grieve for Nelson Mandela--grieve and adorn yourselves in garments of sorrow; grieve, wail loudly and lament. Grieve and fall prostrate on an earthen floor; grieve, let tears flow like a mighty river. And when at last we can grieve no more--
All the world Remember Nelson Mandela.
A young Nelson Mandela in traditional tribal garments.
A pensive Nelson Mandela in a Robbens Island prison cell.
*Front view of our wagon-- complete with brass water jack, antique mail box, and lanterns.* (As you can see, Siobhan and I had to move everything into a barn aisle, or else work outside in lightning and rain!)
*Rear view of our wagon-- showing storage box for cast iron cookware, hay cratch, window and shutters for the lower sleeping quarters.
How quickly the weeks pass; now it is June...the days are longer, the sky is bluer, and the air is filled with the sounds of summer--bees softly buzzing, water sprinklers whirring, the whine of a saw keeping time to the rhythm of a hammer...The sounds of saw and hammer are our contribution to summer's symphony, as Siobhan and I continue to work on our wagon.
The rains have been relentless this month, and the air heavy with humidity. Neither paint nor varnish can easily cure in such conditions; still, we try. Air, land, and water are teeming with insects-- most of which try to adhere themselves to our wet paint, or else bite the painters. Siobhan and I both can attest to that. She has a horrible spider bite on one shoulder, along with multiple mosquito bites randomly scattered on arms and legs. I have fared better, as I have had only one tick bite; unfortunately I contracted Lyme disease from that, and now have aching joints and a fevered brain... Even so, with all our ailments, we have managed to get quite a bit of work done on the wagon.
Siobhan and I now have completed the 3 panels that make up the back wall, the six panels and door that make up the front wall, and the bottom panel and ledge of both left and right sides. We have finished the framework for both upper and lower sleeping berths. (The upper berth is to be Siobhan's, the lower berth is to be mine.) We have done quite a bit of work on the lower sleeping berth; we have finished the ceiling, as well as four small cabinets and a built-in nightstand for the left side wall. We now are now working on the cabinets and nightstand for the right side wall. When those are completed, we can nail down the flooring for the upper sleeping berth, and begin building Siobhan's cabinets.
Sometimes it is hard to curb our enthusiasm now that we are over halfway finished, and the wagon is starting to LOOK like a gypsy wagon...(Siobhan likes to say "Let's go stand and look at the wagon, and Just Beam!!") And just as soon as we finish beaming, the work will continue...
*Rear view of wagon--showing windows and shutters for both upper and lower sleeping berths.
*Interior view of lower sleeping berth, back wall.
*View of lower berth's stained and stenciled ceiling.
My father is a good man--kind and gentle, filled with compassion; a man with an easy manner, a quick intelligence, and a quiet confidence. A man slow to anger, and quick to forgive. Throughout my storm-filled childhood, my sainted father was the rock I clung to in the wake of Mama's rages. He was my comforter, my salvation, my friend.
My father in his younger years was a true jack-of-all trades; even now, I marvel at the scope of his abilities. He could roof a house or repair a radiator with equal ease; he could paint walls or plow a field, cut the lawn or lay a tile floor. He could fix an engine, bake a cake, build a barn, and throw a horseshoe. He could repair TVs and radios. There was nothing my father could not do; he was always my hero.
My father was a good provider and a generous man. He worked two jobs for most of my childhood, so that we could have all that we needed and most of what we wanted. Many times I saw him take the last two dollars from his wallet and hand it to a stranger in need. He was a very giving man; he gave freely and from the heart.
One of the best gifts I ever received came from my father, and it was the following advice:
"Never let anybody tell you that you can't do something because you're a girl. You can learn to do anything you want, if you want it bad enough. You might not be the best at it--nobody can be the best at everything--but if you try hard enough and long enough, you can learn to do anything well. Everything you learn is yours forever--nobody can take that away from you; so learn all that you can!"
My father is a wise man, and I took his words to heart. I learned to draw and to sew, to do algebra and to diagram sentences. I learned to saw and hammer and paint. I learned to cook and to can, to farm and to fish, to ride a horse and to paddle a kayak. I learned to make baskets and to build barns, to cut lawns and to fix holes in radiators. Some of my knowledge came from books, some was acquired from strangers; the most important things things were taught to me by my wonderful father. I learned to love unconditionally. I learned to laugh often, at life and at myself. I learned to forgive the unforgivable.
The ever-growing tapestry of my life is woven with varied and vibrant colors; each thread is something I have read, or learned to do, or experienced along the way. My life has been so much richer, so much fuller than it might have been, had I not been given that advice. And it came from the greatest gift of all--my father.
Happy Father's Day.
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A woman walked up the steps of a house, a child following closely behind her. The steps were quite steep, and the child little more than three or four-- and so the child climbed slowly, placing each small foot with great care... The woman disappeared inside the door, and still the child climbed. Just as she reached the very last step, her tiny sandal, so scuffed and worn, caught on the stair's edge and she fell. O traitorous shoe! O uncaring bricks! Bitterly the child cried,as children are apt to do. Carefully she examined her little knee so bloody, her tiny toe with the nail so cruelly torn off...
Suddenly the woman appeared in the doorway--with her hands on her hips she stood, looking down at the sobbing child. "YOU ARE SO UGLY!" the woman said. "I wish you could see yourself--you ugly little thing!" And with that pronouncement, the woman turned her back on the child and briskly walked away.
The child blinked in astonishment and slowly rose from the steps. Quietly she limped to the bedroom at the end of the hall, where a gold-framed mirror hung high above her head. Tears gone now, the child climbed upon a wooden chair and gazed at her reflection with wonder--until that very moment, she had not known that she was ugly.
