The Craftman's Work

the faint strums of a flat-top mingle with the twangs of a Jew's harp. The creak of Grandma's porch rocker provides appropriate background for the present weaving of another long ago tale for the little apple of her eye. Our sections of the Grit lay abandoned on the weathered handrail. Acrid smoke billowing from old, rolled rags in a four-pound Fischer lard bucket placed in the yard close to the porch steps protects us from gnat bites. The nearby apple trees are obscured in gray. Grandpa sits tired on a large, rectangular rock left at the end of our short lane by the highway construction crew, hoe and sprinkling can at his broganned feet. Proudly he observes the various shades of green in his hillside garden. "Uncle" Sam, the Presbyterian missionary from New Jersey, waves a benevolent hand from the church carry-all on his way to the local children's center. Grandpa lifts his straw hat in return. "Don't Be Cruel" issues from the juke box in the general store across the road. Two teens from Freeman's Fork dance in the graveled parking lot. Birds string themselves up on the electric wires like beads. A new convertible passes on the newly black-topped road. Progress is etching its way deeper into the mountains. I dream grand dreams of a new home and automobile, a television set and lawn mower. Grandpa comes down the lane, hoe over his Light Shine Mountain beyond mountain, Layer upon layer, Mist upon mist, A constant unfolding of depth, Valley of the shadow. Clerestories in trees, luminaries Appear, disappear, reappear, And the mystery is richer, Unexplored, yet familiar, Like rounding a curve And being home. —Victoria Barker khaki clad shoulder, sprinkling can in hand. An amber stream of tobacco juice followed by the fertilizing chew disturbs Grandma's polecat blossoms, releasing their pungent smell. A dipper of sulphur spring water refreshes his mouth. He squints pale blue eyes toward the horizon and proclaims, '"Morning gray and evening red shall send down rain upon our heads.' Corn and 'baccer and people 's gardens need it!" The air cools; dusk comes edging down the hills. Dogs bark up and down the valley. My dress of Dan River material feels good and warm as I scrunch up and pull it down to cover my brown, dusty feet. Tendrils of mist rise from the drying creekbed. Lightning bugs twinkle up from the bottomland. A whippoorwill calls incessantly from a hollow. From the great oak tree standing sentinel over the outhouse, the cries of a chicken hawk torment the occupants of the nearby hen house. Muffled cackles of alarm come from behind protective screens and a buttoned door. Grandma wraps ample arms up in her feedsack apron. Presently the graying head begins to nod. Grandpa stares reflectively into the falling night. Small insects repetitiously offer up their night sounds. I sit drowsy and content on moss-edged steps. The Craftman's Work Born as is beauty in the heart of a man Conceived with a purpose by his mind, Through craft and art well intertwined Realized at last by the skill of his hand. Not as art, for its sake alone, Nor enslaved to an age of speed Instead, to serve a common need The craftsman's work is fondly done. —Sallie Odum ...