I can still hear the pencils of my youth scratching out words. Small hands manipulating lead between fine lines of the college ruled paper. Most would insist a child so young too untrained, in small motor skills to not use such resources. Not my father.
The sound of him turning a page after having brought forefinger and thumb to lip. From such a quiet man such things are heard. The type of man who's smile is seen only in his eyes. A man suited for oaken desks in book filled studies.
The quiet of winters first snow holds my attention. Snow fall is even at that tender age recognized by its mere silence. Morning light will glisten and gleam on the stark white freshness. Sledding is an activity which... focus on the task at hand.
The tapping of a pen on fathers desk. Words flow like rivers from him. So, why all the tapping? Does he search for things unknown to all man? Possibly not, it is more a rhythm, the type one could cast a fly-line to.
A gentle voice, "Buckets have you finished?" A question which needs no reply, simply words to comfort a tiny cramping hand. Or maybe to redirect a wondering mind. Searching paper for place before quick reply.
Chair creeks as father rises to his feet. Heart quickens in my chest, for him I wish to please. Pencil works swift to release a last few lines. As eyes scan for errors upon the page.
Gentle steps softly echo across carpet, then wooden floor. Another chance to please and show that which over one has toiled. Pencil is rested beside paper as hands fold in my lap. Doubt seeps in through small cracks.
Paper crinkles as well known hands lift it from desktop. Father adjust his glasses with slightest of touch. His eyes follow left to right from word to word. No emotion is seemingly shown.
Words finally spoken approval gained. "Buckets it does seem of what you've read you know." Joy overwhelms into slight fears place. Hours that were just spent have not been in failure.
Description:
Years have since passed from those days. As my father prepared his Sunday sermons I sat at a desk with a sample of Christ's teaching. This scripture was read, then reread, then finally explained in words on paper which were my own. And so from the youngest of ages I learned the lessons as recorded in The Bible books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Along with the words of Christ our savior, I too remember the sounds of my father.
The sound of him turning a page after having brought forefinger and thumb to lip. From such a quiet man such things are heard. The type of man who's smile is seen only in his eyes. A man suited for oaken desks in book filled studies.
The quiet of winters first snow holds my attention. Snow fall is even at that tender age recognized by its mere silence. Morning light will glisten and gleam on the stark white freshness. Sledding is an activity which... focus on the task at hand.
The tapping of a pen on fathers desk. Words flow like rivers from him. So, why all the tapping? Does he search for things unknown to all man? Possibly not, it is more a rhythm, the type one could cast a fly-line to.
A gentle voice, "Buckets have you finished?" A question which needs no reply, simply words to comfort a tiny cramping hand. Or maybe to redirect a wondering mind. Searching paper for place before quick reply.
Chair creeks as father rises to his feet. Heart quickens in my chest, for him I wish to please. Pencil works swift to release a last few lines. As eyes scan for errors upon the page.
Gentle steps softly echo across carpet, then wooden floor. Another chance to please and show that which over one has toiled. Pencil is rested beside paper as hands fold in my lap. Doubt seeps in through small cracks.
Paper crinkles as well known hands lift it from desktop. Father adjust his glasses with slightest of touch. His eyes follow left to right from word to word. No emotion is seemingly shown.
Words finally spoken approval gained. "Buckets it does seem of what you've read you know." Joy overwhelms into slight fears place. Hours that were just spent have not been in failure.
Description:
Years have since passed from those days. As my father prepared his Sunday sermons I sat at a desk with a sample of Christ's teaching. This scripture was read, then reread, then finally explained in words on paper which were my own. And so from the youngest of ages I learned the lessons as recorded in The Bible books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Along with the words of Christ our savior, I too remember the sounds of my father.