(this is ridiculously bad and far from being done, but I promised I would try out this subject tonight. it has a poetic weight to it, and I don't think I'm done with it yet, but it needs some work!)
In all the books, the grandpa was
the one who whittled, while sitting on the
front porch that he built with his own two
hands from the trees back behind his cabin.
He took a knife, sharpened by hand, and treated
both his instrument and his art with the utmost
respect. He held the knife carefully, taking
from the piece of wood every milimeter that did
not look like a bear, or a piglet, or an arrowhead.
My grandfathers did not build log cabins, nor did
they whittle with a knife and wood. But they
whittled in other ways: one by acts of service,
the other by the Word of God. And I have begun to
whittle as well, taking words to the porch that
I have built, taking out my tools, and seeing what
I can pull away that does not look like a thesis statement
or a couplet or a rhetorical statement.
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