The Whittler

I have this stick that sits on a particular place on a bookshelf in our living room. It’s one of those things that, once Evan and I are long gone and our children and grandchildren are going through our things reminiscing, won’t even get to the charity pile. I highly doubt their great-grandfather’s whittled stick will make the cut of things they can pile into their already cramped houses. But by-golly it’s staying in mine.

When I think of the simple life, I think of my great-grandparents, Lena and Shirl Lucas. Great names. They lived in a red farmhouse on Covert Branch road. They had two gardens – one belonged to Lena, the other to Shirl. I never asked whey the kept separate gardens, but even at a very young age I thought it was cute. They had a few picnic shelters where they hosted family reunions, and called it The Ponderosa. There was an outhouse down there, where the kept an old Sears and Roebuck catalog and a few corn cobs hanging in the corner… as a joke. For fun, my grandfather and I would throw rocks in the creek, or my grandmother would take me for a walk around the property showing me the different types of wildflowers. Once – and only once – I saw a Jack in the Pulpit.

There was absolutely nothing complicated, at least in my memory, about them or their life. Papaw, as I called him, would often sit on the porch whittling. Nearly all of us in the family have some little remnant of wood he had whittled down into some abstract shape. It seems so quaint, doesn’t it? That someone would just sit on their porch and…whittle? Unlike, say, knitting, reading, or other low-energy pastimes, whittling accomplishes absolutely nothing. There is no point, except to enjoy the day – pass the time. Can you imagine? Passing the time just to pass the time?

When I think about the most peaceful moments of my childhood, a vast majority of them occurred at their house. In fact, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I did a relaxation program to help prepare for labor (which I highly recommend, but that’s for another post) and in one session, you were to imagine the most relaxing, peaceful place. I imagined their porch. Confession: I replaced their squeaky, metal double-glider with a hammock, because as fond as I am of that porch, I do not recollect comfortable furniture. I hadn’t been there in nearly 20 years now, and it’s still the simplest, purest place I can recall.

So, my dear children, do what you want with my stuff once I’m gone. I really won’t need it. And if you choose to throw the stick away, that’s fine. I really do understand. I just need you to know that by sitting around doing nothing, it reminds me that sometimes it’s ok to do the same.