I Visit the Workshop
At Cricket Song.
Grandfather Sycamore Says Hello
While I Sit by the Warmth of the Stove
And Ponder All Things Spiritual.
By Jennifer McGee
Saturday, December 30, 2000.
DATELINE: Conway, Arkansas
Special to corndancer.com
On a recent visit to Cricket Song, I made a highly anticipated and very precious delivery of the young master to our Hermit and Mistress of the Hacienda. After a joyous but short reunion, I was compelled to leave the cozy, sunny sitting room, despite no lack of pleading, entreating, and offering of tortilla soup from the mistress, for my own final destination.
It was Christmas time — a blessed three weeks away from school and work for me, and three weeks of laziness and relaxation at home. Finally, Christmas: a time to forget our earthly woes and remember Him who came at this time of year (so the learned scholars and experts on the subject tell us) so that we might inherit a kingdom of peace and joy.
Being so abbreviated in my first visit, I made another pilgrimage to the solitude of Cricket Song. I had forgotten to give my yuletide greetings-by-Christmas-card to the family, and since the door latch is always open for visitors, I decided to stop by before the big holiday.
The Young Master Extends His Greeting.
I was greeted at the door by the young master of the household, known only by the cryptic moniker M.D. Dab, who informed me that the Mistress of the Hacienda had retired early and that his father could be found out back in the workshop.
Now, young master of the household M.D. Dab and I go back a long way. We have been friends for over seven years.... no, make that six. We had a (how shall I say?) difference of personalities and conflict of interests in our first year of acquaintance. However, once we had both matured a little and I realized the error of my ways, we forgave and forgot. Now we are great friends attending the same university and having a wonderful time, but also both enjoying our time at home.
He smiled and led me through the house to the backyard. Even in the cold of winter, Cricket Song's garden proudly displayed its inviting benches and chairs, announcing its role as a place of repose. The leaves crinkled with delight under our feet, beckoning us to come frolic in the wind with them, and the birds cocked their heads in whimsy of the season, extending an invitation to come caroling with them. However, M. D. Dab and I had different plans and hurried inside the inviting, warm workshop.
Like Santa himself surrounded by his tools he stood, working diligently on crafts to bring smiles in days to come. A big smile lit up his white-bearded face, and I almost heard a ho-ho-ho or two as he welcomed us in surprise. "Why come here you sweet girl," he insisted as I held out my card like a child with a wish list for Saint Nick himself. "I am going to give you a kiss!"
Sawdust Is No Stranger to Me.
So presently I found myself in his warm embrace with a peck on my cheek. "By all means have a seat," he insisted. He cleaned off the sawdust-covered ladder-back chair and set it close to the stove for me. "Don't want you to have to sit in all those wood shavings." I told him it was quite all right; sawdust was no stranger to me. My father is a carpenter himself, and I grew up around saws and wood and hammers and nails; in fact, we had just built a new house this year, and I helped trim it like a Christmas tree with wood, just as Father Christmas here was making trim for a door inside the house.
Cricket Song is getting a makeover, you see. Our resident hermit and mistress of the hacienda watch and aid in the slow metamorphosis of the house. The current project involves the trimming of doors and beams in wood and other interesting creations from the imagination of its residents. Maybe it is in light of this trimming action that there wasn't a Christmas tree in Cricket Song; maybe the trimming of the house fulfills the need to trim anything else. Or, as Kris Kringle explains to me, it is the spirit of Christmas trees past that make it unnecessary. Last year's tree is now alive and well in the ground outside the house (for it was a live, potted tree last year), and its aura seems to still be there, the aura of living, love, prosperity, and friendship that already exists throughout the hearth.
I watched as the jolly old elf added wood to the stove next to me. Like a loyal little black dog, the stove squatted on its haunches next to me, its tongue of fire lapping up the wooden treats, greedily, as they settled in its iron belly. What a friendly place, this workshop not quite at the North Pole. What it lacked in size it made up for in coziness; it filleth up and runneth over with character, love, and inspiration.
That's Grandfather Sycamore Saying Hello.
A knocking came upon the rooftop like the tapping of reindeer hooves. "Oh, that's just grandfather sycamore saying hello," he explained as he saw my questioning eyes. What a quaint hideout! I was beginning to love it in there, but, unfortunately, duty called me elsewhere. "Well, I wish you could stay longer, but it's a good thing you mentioned it because young master of the household here is supposed to rake leaves." M. D. Dab smiled sheepishly. "You wait until I come home and make me do it all."
"Exactly. You can spread your 10 hours of service across these three weeks, but once you get going, you always realize it isn't so bad." We had left the warmth of the workshop and once again trod over the leaves, which now cried for us not to ruin their fun. Alas, leaves: Frolic while you can, for soon you will not have time; such is the lesson I have learned.
So I left Cricket Song for another time and made my way back into the land of mortals, but I knew I would return. And I heard him exclaim as I drove out of sight....
"Merry Christmas to all, and write me a 'Saturday's Guest Writer' story!"
Happy holidays and a wonderful New Year to all.
Jennifer
McGee
A
Personal
Note
Written
at
CornDancer's
Request.
It feels kind of strange to be nineteen, knowing that in less than a year I will have officially left my teens behind. But it's a part of growing up, and I take the changes greedily and readily as they come to me.
I am a freshman at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville where I am majoring in nothing particular at the moment. Hey, I still have lots of time to decide! This is the first time I have lived away from my home of Conway, Arkansas, where I was born in October of 1981, and though it has lots of challenges, it is a beneficial and exciting experience.
I miss my family, though: my parents Bill and Darlene; my darling and spoiled weenie dog Ellie; my sister Regina and my brother Larry (who are respectively 15 and 11 years older than me; yes, I am very much the baby of the family!); and my precious nephews Alex, Stewart, and Seth (and a brand-spanking new one due to arrive in April).
I consider my life a blessing from God that He gives me daily to live as productively, honorably, and worthily as I can. In all I do, I try give back to Him all he gives me, though I can never fully repay the debt. He is the ultimate reason for all I do.
