litlover
10-01-2005, 04:22 PM
On a slope of garden he toiled. Slow, unhurried, spitting on his hands then rubbing the spit in. From time to time he straightened from turning the soil and looked around. He took pleasure in the labour. I could see that. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Just a sheen. His movements were precise, practised. All day he could keep this up. The grace of easy motion seemed to pervade his space. Even the butterflies flew straight, as though reflecting the languor of his moves.
An hour later and he joined me sitting in the shade. We sat in silence for the while. I heard his breathing, already slow, gradually return to its relaxed rhythm. I set aside my book. He turned it in his brown hand, his thumb at my reading place.
'Cowboys. Is it good?'
'Oh, aye. It's about Kit Carson. D'ye know who he was?'
'Who?'
'He found bits of America nobody knew was even there. He was first to see rivers an' mountains that...'
'What about the Indians? Did they not live there first? They might have known these places.'
I pondered his remark.
'But they never wrote about it,' I offered.
Now it was his turn to ponder.
'Well, writing about a thing doesn't mean you're the first to do it. Maybe only the first to write about it.'
He gazed for a while up into his garden. Some birds, sparrows, I think, were noisily exploring the freshly turned earth.
'You know, I'll never write about this garden. But you see what I've done, can't you? This place was...like a field a few years ago. And bits of it no-one had ever seen.'
I checked to see the smile. He placed his hands on his knees and rose.
'And it will be again, if I don't get on.'
'Granda?'
'Yes?'
'When you're workin' you stop an awful lot. Are you tired?'
He thought about it.
'When you work you do get tired. But if you work within yourself you can keep going for a bit longer. Them wee rests I take are just...to have a look about me - see what I've done and what I have to do. I'm sure you won't read all that book at one go, will you? An' that's the same with me. I'll save a bit. For there's always another time. An' I save myself - no use rushing, son. It gets done.'
He patted his stomach and turned to go.
'Granda?'
'Yes, son?'
'Sometimes it looks like you're saying something. Like you're talkin' to yourself when you're workin'.'
He laughed.
'That's just my prayers.'
Now I was confused.
'Your prayers? Do you not say them in bed?'
'You can say a mouthful of prayers no matter where you are, son. I say mine in the garden, when I'm workin'. Now you get on with Kit Carson. But before ye do, away an' tell your Aunt to bring me out a drop of tay, will you? For I'm parched.'
An hour later and he joined me sitting in the shade. We sat in silence for the while. I heard his breathing, already slow, gradually return to its relaxed rhythm. I set aside my book. He turned it in his brown hand, his thumb at my reading place.
'Cowboys. Is it good?'
'Oh, aye. It's about Kit Carson. D'ye know who he was?'
'Who?'
'He found bits of America nobody knew was even there. He was first to see rivers an' mountains that...'
'What about the Indians? Did they not live there first? They might have known these places.'
I pondered his remark.
'But they never wrote about it,' I offered.
Now it was his turn to ponder.
'Well, writing about a thing doesn't mean you're the first to do it. Maybe only the first to write about it.'
He gazed for a while up into his garden. Some birds, sparrows, I think, were noisily exploring the freshly turned earth.
'You know, I'll never write about this garden. But you see what I've done, can't you? This place was...like a field a few years ago. And bits of it no-one had ever seen.'
I checked to see the smile. He placed his hands on his knees and rose.
'And it will be again, if I don't get on.'
'Granda?'
'Yes?'
'When you're workin' you stop an awful lot. Are you tired?'
He thought about it.
'When you work you do get tired. But if you work within yourself you can keep going for a bit longer. Them wee rests I take are just...to have a look about me - see what I've done and what I have to do. I'm sure you won't read all that book at one go, will you? An' that's the same with me. I'll save a bit. For there's always another time. An' I save myself - no use rushing, son. It gets done.'
He patted his stomach and turned to go.
'Granda?'
'Yes, son?'
'Sometimes it looks like you're saying something. Like you're talkin' to yourself when you're workin'.'
He laughed.
'That's just my prayers.'
Now I was confused.
'Your prayers? Do you not say them in bed?'
'You can say a mouthful of prayers no matter where you are, son. I say mine in the garden, when I'm workin'. Now you get on with Kit Carson. But before ye do, away an' tell your Aunt to bring me out a drop of tay, will you? For I'm parched.'