The young apprentice started every workday by repairing any chipped edges of his father’s chisels, tightening every belt and pulley that may have loosened from the previous days work. He sharpened each of the old man’s pencils and knew exactly how he liked each point. Very sharp on the first pencil for the hidden lines on a drawing that could be seen close-up with careful study, another pencil had a point cut at an angle on one side that the old man held like a stick and drew wide, wild lines from his imagination, and lastly a pencil that was soft and blunt that he used for making notes on the wood that would later be cut. He was excited and ready; it had been a long time since he worked with his father. He was a man but today he felt like a child, eager and bright eyed, for the day held a poignant savor he could feel deep in his bones – a thirst for learning.
His father surprised him that morning. He didn’t wear the saw-dusted overalls that that he lived in everyday, but shorts and a clean white tee shirt and had his walking cane by his side. The old man was not one to show affection, but this morning he put his arm around his son and said,
“Walk with me. Today is not a day for work but a day to visit the riverbed and see the water. This will be my third time to see water flow in the riverbed, that means -- my last time. Worry not, there is plenty of time to work tomorrow, for it is easy to wake up in the morning and work when there is something in your mind to work on”.
The young man couldn’t remember a happier day in his life. He didn’t just walk with his father, he ran and played and sang and fumbled over tree stumps and tripped in the mud. He waited into the steaming current of the river that came up to his knees and formed white suds and bubbles of blue water that passed between his legs and soaked his crotch and splashed onto his chest and face. His father sat near the riverbank in deep thought. He listened to the gurgling rhythm of water but his head was full of wondrous jigs and machines of the likes the world had never known. He envisioned the water pushing huge wheels made from the largest holes in the world, larger than a lizards tail, larger than a dog, even larger than a house.
And work they did. Each day, well before dawn they would rise together and begin to sketch and design and make jigs, and throw away broken ideas that didn’t work and begin to dream the same dreams and think the same thoughts and do something they had never done before – work as a team, as equals with the laughter and smiles and the arguments and the fights that all go together when two people work as one, striving to build the same dream.
And … there was more. The master woodworker’s son had the energy of youth and would go back and work in the evenings. Every night after dinner he would work almost until daylight. He made holes. He made the same holes he had been watching his father make since birth. He made those holes so they could be traded for thingamajigs, thingamabobs, gismos, widgets, and whatchamacallits. It wasn’t long before food filled the bellies of the old man’s family and laughter returned to their windowless shelter that was made from sticks and red shale and stuff they found when the dry riverbed wasn’t dry.
On occasion when the old man couldn’t sleep, for old men are restless from time to time, he would wonder out to the shop under the canopy and see the remains of holes lying about on the floor. He would step in sawdust made by his son and pick up the left over circles of wood and inspect them, holding them up to the light, like a person might look at a Robin’s egg, seeing it for the first time. He would then carefully put it back in the same spot, as not to disturb anything, and return to bed. There he would lie with a proud smile on his face, and he would quietly laugh an old man’s laugh. Somehow his wife would know he was happy because it was during those moments that she would hold him a little closer than usual and snuggle her head into his armpit and fall into a deep sleep.
He wondered about the holes his son made because he never saw any of them. But by looking at the sawdust and where it lied on the floor and under which machines it accumulated, he knew exactly how and what had been made. When he did see the holes they were usually in the possession of another household and were passed around in the community like pieces in the enigmatic game of bartering.
Much time had passed. Please excuse me for disrupting the narrative but I must again apologize, I’m grasping for straws one might say, because it is difficult to measure the passing of time when time is of no importance. The best I can do to describe how much time had passed is to say it was before any water was to be seen again in the dry riverbed. It took that long for the old man and his son to complete their work. Two of the largest holes that anyone had even seen and built exactly to the king’s specifications were loaded onto an ox cart that was to be driven the following morning to the kingdom of the third dynasty of Sukhotorcold. The old man was very pleased with himself, but completing his dream came with bittersweet emotions. It was the work that produced the greatest pleasure. Working with his son by his side was very much like one of the holes lying in the back of the ox card. It was hard to tell where it began and where it ended. But it did end, as all things must, and the pleasure of seeing and discussing their completed holes got boring for both of them after a few days.
It was decided long ago that when the king’s project was over the old man would deliver it him self. His son would remain in the hamlet to care for his mother that had been sick with a disease known throughout the Never Never as the thirsty illness. It was with happiness and sadness that the old man left home that early spring morning when the air still held the chill of winter. When water flowed in the springs, and the brooks gurgled over their rocky edges, and the deer, wild turkeys and rabbits ran with abundance throughout the forest.
He was sad that he was leaving his young son, though not that young anymore by anyone’s standards. He thought of his loving wife that had been by his side before he ever saw the first water in the dry riverbed. He was happy and immensely proud. For in the wagon tucked under his food and clothing and some minimal tools to repair almost anything was a gift from his son. Without a word being spoken, his son had left three blankets tied tightly together on the seat of the ox card. Inside the blankets were three long boards that displayed the finest holes ever made and each board was coated with the resin from the giant white trees that begot the boards originally, and protected them from the sun, wind, and water for the long journey ahead. Tears ran down the old man’s cheeks, tears of happiness that come with deep emotions, for the holes in his possession were made from the soul and strength that came from generations of master craftsmen. These holes would remain as a family heirloom until the dry riverbed would fill with water a dozen times over.
To be continued . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment