March 26, 2009
the hand that wants to rock the cradle
What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. ~~ Emerson
The weather is scheduled, according to the forecasters, to be stormy and cloudy the rest of the week. I sit and watch gloomy skies outside my window with Mr. Bluejay flitting from branch to branch of the chinaberry tree. The world around me is awash in color. Leaves have grown overnight from tiny little sprouts to a green blanket that isolates me in my treehouse of a den.
The house is silent except for the snoring dogs and the refrigerator humming - my mother's clock strikes the hour. The clock my father traded work for so mom could have a chiming clock that reminded her of her childhood. I hated chiming clocks growing up but now it's thing to smile about. When I was a child, my brother was sick and my father worked a lot of odd jobs on the weekend to bring home extra money...or the occasional barter. Jobs at Roper's turned into birthday presents of rings or watches. My father could build almost anything out of what seemed to be cheap pine, a saw, nails and wood glue. He built furniture out on the back porch and I would love to sit and smell the saw dust.
One year for Christmas, my father built my sister a cradle. A beautiful cradle and she got her first Madame Alexander baby doll, Elizabeth. Today, it stands the test of time. In fact, GA is plotting to get my sister's cradle. Her current strategy is to convince Jean-Marie that she's too old for a cradle and she doesn't play with her dolls anymore. I don't think it's working.
scribbled by Char