No More Good Samaritans? -- Gibson

Monday, September 24^th. An exquisite afternoon in my parents' city--until my father discovered something had gone missing.

Daddy set out on his mobility scooter to visit a friend in the hospital almost across the road. En-route home, his scooter tumbled off a curb and he tumbled off the scooter, hitting his head on the concrete.

Old man, silver hair tousled. Cast down. And in one of the busiest sections of town, too. I wonder how many people passed him; but not one good Samaritan.

Pouf! Here one century, gone the next.

Somehow Dad managed to right his little machine and climb back on.

“I wasn’t hurt, Kathleen,” he told me later, over the phone. “And the scooter wasn’t damaged. But something really bad happened in my head. I got all turned around.”

It should have taken Dad less than five minutes to scoot home. Instead, he wandered around town for over an hour trying to find his way home. Asking for directions. A few people pointed this way and that, he said, but by the time the words had left their mouths they’d rushed away and Dad, who had increasing memory challenges even prior to his fall, had already forgotten what they’d said.

(“My memory?” he often answers when I ask him how his brain is doing this week. “Great! Good as new! Hardly ever used it!”)

And so it happened, that after helping others all his life, Daddy found no one to help him. To take five minutes and guide him home. That he arrived there eventually, and recognized the place, could only be thanks to the Father who has guided him all his life.

Forget “state of the nation” speeches. Nations consist of "state of the heart.” These days, (generally speaking): petrified of strangers, disrespectful of elders, afraid to touch anyone we’re not related to or in love with and too self-centered to get involved. And even if we weren’t all that, in cases like Dad's most of us assume everyone carries a cell. Not Dad. Never has. Never will.

He told me about getting lost a few days after it happened, when I called from two provinces over to wish him a happy 89^th birthday. It took a few days for his head to clear, he said.And that’s when I learned about the disappearance of the Good Samaritans.

I’m not pointing fingers at one city. Things like that happen where I live too. I’m not pointing fingers at anyone at all. I’m doing what my darlin’ dad told me he was doing, after he noticed my long pause at the other end of his story.

“I’m okay, Kathleen,” he said, worried about me now. “Really. I guess I just needed to cry on your shoulder awhile.”

Forgive me. I guess that's what I'm doing on yours. Good Samaritans shone rather beautifully in the world, you see. I already miss them.

Among other places, author, newspaper columnist and broadcaster Kathleen Gibson ponders faith and life in Sunny Side Up and on Simple Words.

You're not 'too old'! - Nesdoly

"Thunderstorm" painting by Grandma Moses (1948 - at 88 years).

• My friend Mel started running triathlons shortly before his 60th birthday.

• My cousin Len began studying Punjabi at 77 so he could talk to his neighbours.

• Lucille Broderson wrote her first poem at 60 and had her first poem published, in Poetry Magazine, at  73. At 95 she's still feisty, writing and publishing her prize-winning poems. Here she is reading poetry in her home city of Minneapolis Minnesota

• At 95 Nola Hill Ochs is one of the the oldest people ever to graduate from college. She graduated from Fort Hays State University in Hays Kansas  in 2007 after a career as a student that spanned 33 years (she first enrolled in a correspondence course in 1930). A CBS interview of her shows her with her granddaughter, who graduated with her.

Nola Ochs: "There's a great satisfaction in finishing what you start."

• Grandma Moses (Anna Mary Robertson: September 1860 - December 1961) took up painting at 76, after her arthritis made it too painful to carry on stitching the embroidery pictures she loved to create. In 1938 art collector Louis Caldor discovered her work. An Encyclopedia of World Biography article about her talks about her meteoric rise to fame: Her first one-woman show was held in New York City in 1940 and immediately she became famous. Her second one-woman show, also in New York City, came two years later. By 1943 there was an overwhelming demand for her pictures, partially because her homespun, country scenes brought about wonderful feelings and memories for many people. (See more of her paintings here.)

"Quilting Bee" by Grandma Moses (1950 - at 90 years)

All that to say, whatever your age, don't give "I'm too old" as an excuse for not going after your dreams. 

First published on my personal blog promptings June 19, 2012;  one of a series of weekly Tuesday posts that explores aspects of aging.

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Need a break from the 21st century rat-race? Travel to a different time and place via Destiny's Hands, a new novel recently released by Word Alive Press.

Experience Egyptian slavery, the exodus, crossing the Red Sea. Meet Moses, Aaron, Miriam, Hur, and Bezalel.  Eat quail and manna. Drink water from rocks. Live the temptations and questions of wilderness wandering.

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Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

Till Alzheimer's do us part? - Nesdoly

Pat Robertson's answer to the question of what to do when a spouse has Alzheimer's sent shock waves through the audience of the 700 Club show this September. "He should divorce her and start all over again," he said. "Since Alzheimer's is a kind of living death," he went on, "divorce and remarriage wouldn't be violating the marriage vows of being faithful 'till death do us part.'"

Dr. Robert McQuilken did the opposite. When this theologian's wife took ill, he stayed faithfully at the side of his partner of 40 years to the extent of quitting his job so he could provide around-the-clock care.

Sickness is one of many reasons we can find, if we're looking, to rationalize breaking our marriage vows. But the Bible is clear that marital separation should be a rare thing. Here are some things the Bible says about the marriage bond:

• Husbands are to love their wives as themselves and as sacrificially as Christ loved the church, while wives are to respect their husbands (Ephesians 5:25,28, 33; Colossians 3:19).
• Wives of unbelieving husbands should stay with them, hopefully winning them to belief by their outer and inner beauty (1 Peter 3:1-4).
• Our prayers may be hindered by marital strife (1 Peter 3:7).

...and there's no expiry date on any of these.

This story in more depth:

• ABC News story "Pat Robertson Says Alzheimer's Makes Divorce OK"

• Christianity Today article: "Living By Vows" by Robert McQuilken

By Violet Nesdoly - excerpted from "Till Alzheimer's Do Us Part" posted originally on Other Food: daily devos.

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Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

• Personal blog promptings  
• Writerly blog Line upon line 
  
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Time-lapse summer - Nesdoly

Hubby's farm home

Ah summertime — the season of reunions.  I've been to two this year, complete with jaunts back to Saskatchewan. I usually anticipate them with just a touch of dread. But so far every reunion I have been to has turned out better than I ever expected.

This summer's were no exception. It was wonderful to reconnect with old high school friends in Dalmeny on the July long weekend. The July/August long weekend just past saw us reuniting with hubby's family.

About a hundred of us Nesdolys found our way to the Rosthern arena at some point between July 29th and 31st. We did the usual reunion things—eat, visit, play games, look at pictures, eat, visit the homesteads and the cemeteries, eat some more, then line up in families for mass photo shoots.

One of the 30-somethings had put together a family photo slide show that looped throughout the three days. What fun to see the aunties and uncles—most no longer with us—in their somber 40's wedding poses, then the babies that were us, and the next generation that looked a lot like us, and on and on ...

The barn looks like some of us feel

One thing that hit me harder this reunion than any so far is how our kids are becoming the middle-aged ones and we the oldies. As parents, uncles and aunts slip away, suddenly we're the senior generation. Mind you, it's pretty obvious if you look at us, with our salt-and-pepper hair, lined and wrinkled faces, wattled necks and sagging middles. 

The summer kitchen - a deserted hazard

A visit to Grandpa Tim's farm site impressed on me even more the fact that nothing stays the same. The poor barn there looks like some of us feel.  The house is still liveable but hubby said immaculate housekeeper Auntie P. would have a conniption if she saw the current state of it. The summer kitchen is a deserted hazard.

We slogged through shoulder high grass and thistle to get to hubby's old farm home. His workboot from when we visited last ten years ago is still there but now, like too many family members, has lost its partner. The driveway has all but disappeared. It seems everything is getting covered, or stolen, or erased by time.

Farm home - a visit to the past

The boot has lost its partner

It's a sobering reminder of the brevity of life. Oh, I'm very familiar with the verses that describe man being as ephemeral as grass or smoke. But it's quite another thing to see that transience playing out like time lapse photography all around you. It's a challenge too, to fill  the days left with as much love and caring, joy and music, laughter and worship, photographs and good food as each will hold.


This post is linked to "In, On, and Around Mondays: Art is a Touchdown" at Seedlings in Stone. Come on over and join in the conversation.

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Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

• Personal blog promptings  
• Writerly blog Line upon line 
  
• Daily devotions for children Bible Drive-Thru
• Daily devotions for adults: Other Food: daily devos
• A poem portfolio

Grieving Those Still With Us - Austin

Like joy, grief comes in many forms. Often it takes us by surprise. We think we are prepared, then find that preparing our minds fails totally at preparing our emotions.

No one lives forever here, and we grasp that without difficulty -- as a theory. But some people, even in long distance relationships, have entwined themselves in our lives so deeply that we cannot imagine a world without them.

Can this be the same man who moped around when he hit 50, because life was over? He's done quite a bit of living in the years since. Ninety-two is just nine days away as I post this.

In his 70's and 80's Dad was one of the key fund-raisers for the Canadian Leprosy Mission. With another man of the same vintage, they gathered scrap aluminum and copper, as well as old betteries and raised more than $50,000 each year. At 76 Dad set an age record for the zip-line at Camp Harmattan, and he still talked of getting roller-blades at 80, his wife telling him to act his age. On that particular birthday, Dad reached 80 push-ups, a goal he had worked toward for quite some time. It seems only yesterday that he would go for a walk and break into a jog.

Can this be the same man, tottering on uncertain steps, turning his body, then trying desperately to convince his feet to cooperate? Can this be the same man, who can still recite "The Cremation of Sam McGee," but asks the same question five times in 15 minutes? Can this man who relates stories from 70 years ago in minute detail, be the same one who cannot remember where 'home' is? Can this be the same man who moves so slowly from the couch to the phone, who has enough alertness to know he is losing some of his mental abilities, but no way to slow that loss?

How many times have I joked that he would outlive me, more than half expecting it would be true? How many times have I anticipated his line on the phone, "I'm pretty good for an old man," and somehow delighted in its predictability? How many times have I reflected on the richness of knowing he and Evelyn had prayed for my wife and I, each of our children and grandchildren -- by name -- within the last 24 hours? With close to 80 names in 10 extended families the last time I was present for one of those prayer times, there were mixups and prompts. But what price could you put on such a heritage?

Thirty-five years of daily prayer with Mom & Dad until Mom died in 1978. Thirty-two years of daily prayer with Dad & Evelyn. I'm getting up there, but that's more years of prayer than I've been around. They might have left millions for the seven families on Dad's side and the three families on Evelyn's side to squabble over. But how many millions would it take to balance this richer heritage of a lifetime of prayer? How many millions would it take to balance lives lived for God -- not perfectly -- but consistently?

I ache as I write this. I can hardly wrap my mind around this man who would still walk five miles a day two years ago, now shuffling in slow, uncertain steps. Yet in the midst of the ache, a deep joy wells up. Dad's time here is almost over, but he is finishing well. The losses hurt, for him and for everyone around him. But his faith in God remains strong. As we plan a trip west for another visit, the richest tribute I can pay him is to let him know my wife and I carry on this tradition of prayer -- daily -- for our children and grandchildren. I know the same thing is happening in most of those 10 extended families. These days it is also our privilege to be praying for Dad and Evelyn on a regular basis.

Dad's involvement in fundraising for the Canadian Leprosy Mission was integrally tied to his workshop. He stripped insulation off hundreds of pounds of copper and aluminum wire for recycling -- a tedious task, but somehow deeply satisfying for him. He also spent countless hours puttering with tools acquired over a lifetime, often reparing something for a neighbour who might be 40 years younger. Ranking someone else's losses is a dangerous thing, but possibly the biggest single loss in Dad's life since Mom died so many years ago was the loss of that workshop.
Those first years in a luxurious senior's complex wore at Dad. If he could have just gone out to the shop for an hour or two, the rest of it would have been a foretaste of heaven. He might have needed an ambulance on standby. His workshop had seen quite a bit of blood spilled through the years, but it had also left an imprint for good on many, many lives.

Grieving. . . It's a strange process. Dad is grieving a body that no longer does his bidding, and a mind that delights in the distant past, but is baffled by the present. Every one of his kids, the youngest past 50 now, grieves as well -- that this man who has seemed timeless, now somehow measures every day against a clock fast winding down.

Ah, but love is a rich, rich treasure. And we do not grieve like those who have no hope. For love, combined with a life lived for God and for others, leaves a legacy of immeasurable value.

Thank You, God, for Dad! And thank you Dad, for living your faith in God!

Kicking & Screaming - Atchison

The other weekend, I was reading about upcoming events in the newspaper looking for things my husband and I could do. I read about a fundraiser at a local area church. The cause was against Human Trafficking, which I thought was a pretty good cause to support.

The fundraiser was a golf tournament. While I don’t golf, and the price was too steep for me to enter, I noticed that one member of the church's youth group was arranging a concert at 5:30 pm on the Saturday, with local area bands and the entry fee was $5.00 (although I knew one would be able to donate more at the door). I got really excited and suggested that we go to this concert.

My husband, Michael, looked at me skeptically and said, “Sure, I guess if you want to.”

We left it at that, but a little while later when I was making supper, Michael looked at me oddly. “You’re sure you really want to go to this youth concert?” he asked.

“Sure.” I replied, “Why not, it will be fun and it supports a good cause.”

He looked at me with a wry grin, “Think about it. The youth group is organizing it. There is a very small cover charge, and it starts at 5:30 pm.”

“Yeah. So,” I said.

“It’s a youth concert for the kids put on by the kids. Don’t you think we will look a little out of place?” Michael pointed out.

I laughed and agreed, I guess we would look like party crashers, especially as we are closer to the senior discount card than the fake ID card.

I knew we would be welcomed, but at the same time a part of me was sad, as I knew we wouldn’t fit in, especially without any kids to take to the event, as our child is grown and moved away from home.

Then I questioned: how is it I had suddenly reached the age that I am at? Is this what those joking cards mean when they say “Over the Hill”? I am still climbing the hill (however hard it may be), but not quite over it.

I think I am going to have to go kicking and screaming into the next decade of birthdays. You notice I haven’t said the ‘old’ word, but it is definitely zooming around in my head.

Cliché’s like “young at heart”, “looks great for her age”, “fifty (something) and fabulous”, are phrases that interrupt my thoughts frequently. I am not ready for this. The last time I felt a great difference in the age of people was when I was in my late thirties and noticed how far apart from me 25-year-old’s seemed. Now that age group seems really young – just babies – practically. How can they even be productive members of society? They don’t even know about life yet!

My friend commented one time that when women reach a certain age it is like we become invisible. I know my “Miss” definitely became a “Ma’am” years ago.

So where does that leave me. How do I age gracefully but still keep that youthful heart? How do I enjoy the benefits of exercise without taking that class intended for those youth in their twenties that can “give’er” and not get hurt?

Contemplating these thoughts and sharing them with Michael, he suggested, “Let it go. Why can’t you just age gracefully? Whatever happens happens.”

We decided to go to a movie that weekend. Although I was really interested in seeing a general audience 3D kid’s movie, we opted for the restricted one.

When getting ready for the movie, Michael asked what I was doing in the bathroom as I was taking so long.

“Nothing!” I yelled and quickly shoved the small mirror, razor, wax kit and tweezers into the drawer. You won’t be finding a hair on my “chiny-chin-chin”!

Patricia L. Atchison
Website: www.patriciaatchison.ca
Writing & Publishing Blog: www.aboutwritingandpublishing.com

Wisdom in Aging - MANN

Interesting how a room full of grandmothers can initiate so much laughter and a ton of topics. I’m always amazed at the wide range of conversational tidbits that surface when I speak to senior women. Even as I am one, I learn from them and wonder what they will think of next. Recently I had opportunity to speak about the wisdom people gain with age, men and women alike. Adding to this is the knowledge that their circle of influence is far wider than they might ever expect.

Although in any of these gatherings, there are always certain family dynamics that rise around adult children and grandchildren, some of the more relevant issues being family secrets, playing favourites and knowing when to listen rather than advice.

An area that received a lot of response was about preparing our grandchildren (and sometimes even more importantly our children, so they can teach their children) about our aging process. Into that mix there are always times when we have accidents or become sick. Glynis Belec graciously shared with me a poem and story that she wrote a while back to explain to Trenton, her then three-year-old grandson, why her hair had disappeared. When I finished reading it, the whole room erupted with applause. Even though it’s difficult to share honestly with loved ones, it’s so important to do it.

Recently, I thought I’d like to have silver-white hair like my husband. I had his vote and my own, but one of my sons said, “Why would you like to do that, Mother.” Another time when I complained about ‘not being able to do that anymore’, another son said, “Just do it, Mother.” Even when our statements might be misunderstood, I believe that it’s important to celebrate our age, the colour of our hair and even sometimes our creaky bones.

I don’t plan on going anywhere, but I continue to ask how can I be a better Mother. And how can I be the kind of Grandmother that all my grandkids will remember with love. I'm still learning this one on a daily basis. Spending time with them whenever I can is a high goal. And those with whom I can’t spend physical time, I email a little extra or surprise them by showing up a little more often on their Facebook, right along with all their friends.

Mark Twain said, “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.” I don’t mind getting old-er, in fact I’ve had lots of fun doing it. It does matter because I never want to take life for granted and I always want to appreciate every day as a gift from God.

Donna Mann
http://www.donnamann.org
Visit MeadowLane Children's MP3 site at http://meadowlane.homestead.com
Aggie's Dream - another Agnes Macphail Young Adult Novel coming in September

Aging: the silver lining - Nesdoly

In June I shared some thoughts about writing and aging on my personal blog. Did you know, for example, that some agents won't take on aging writers? It can be a depressing time, with a lot going on - and off.

Of course, aging can also be a time of satisfaction as we take on new roles, strategize on how to age creatively and reflect on a successful writing career. There must be something to recommend it, considering all the characters aged 50 and older in recent novels.

Despite all the cliches about aging, as Christians, we really shouldn't be all that concerned about it. Here's why:

• God has planned each one of our days (Psalm 139:16).

• Even though their number is limited (Psalm 39:5; James 4:14), God promises us His attention, direction and success (Psalm 32:8; Isaiah 30:21).

• Our general assignment is to be faithful stewards of the time, talent and opportunity we've been given (Luke 12:48; Luke 19:12-26).

• God has a specific job for each of us too (Ephesians 2:10). Bible characters like Abraham, Moses and Caleb illustrate that when one's assignment isn't complete, age is no obstacle. In other words, God's purposes aren't hindered by His vessel's advancing age.

• Finally it is God who determines what our life's work is actually worth (I Corinthians 3:10-15) and He's the one we need to impress. Os Guinness calls it living before the "Audience of One." (The Call, p. 70).

As we focus our attention on the things above, we can be as oblivious to the advancing years as the woman described in Proverbs 31: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come." (Proverbs 31:25)

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Violet Nesdoly's web site
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My Floater - Nesdoly

The Grinch, Nature or Old Age gave me a gift on Christmas Eve. I first noticed it as a darting spot on the computer screen when I checked my email.

What?!

I rubbed my eyes, blinked numerous times then looked at the monitor again. It hadn't gone away. Instead it hovered right beside the words I was reading and then, the second I moved my eyeball to see what it really was, darted away like a mischievous child.

Now I'd had visual impostors before. Floaters, they're called. Always in the past they had drifted through my visual field - occasional lazy black snowflakes that just disappeared. This was different.

Since I had no pain and could easily function I ignored the nuisance through a hectic Christmas day. However, when it was still there on the 26th I decided to do some deeper sleuthing.

Googling "visual spots" and "retina" yielded some alarming possibilities - retinal tears, detachment, blurry vision, vision loss. Frightened, I made an ASAP appointment with a local optometry clinic.

The result was a relief. A floater it was, though a big one, the optometrist said. The bad news, it will hang around indefinitely. More good news, our brains typically weary of registering such non-objects, learn to ignore them and we become oblivious to their presence. Unfortunately my brain isn't there yet.

This constant companion brought to mind a little poem I memorized as a kid. Here it is, modified just a tad to fit my situation.

My Floater
(With apologies to Robert Louis Stevenson)

I have a little floater that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of her is more than I can see.
She is very very jumpy like a little black fruit fly
As she swoops and flits and quivers 'round the corner of my eye.

The funniest thing about her is the way she never stares
me full face-on but rather lurks beside me unawares
like a glass chip in a window, cobweb fragment, spot or thread
she’s a bit of protein darting through the humor of my head.

She hasn’t got a notion of how floaters shouldn’t stay
within one’s line of vision but should gently drift away.
The way she hovers near me, paranoia it must be
I’d think shame to stick to anyone like floater sticks to me.

Perhaps one morning early when my desktop is alight
I’ll rise and find my page displays without a spot in sight.
My annoying little floater will be nowhere about
because my brain has finally figured how to tune her out!

© 2009 by Violet Nesdoly

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Growing Older - Austin

On a recent trip to Alberta for a family wedding, I spent quite a bit of time with my parents. At 89, Dad is in exceptionally good shape physically. He still does pushups and walks for miles every day. However, selling the house and far more, selling his workshop with all its tools, has stripped him in ways almost beyond measuring. The retirement home they have moved into pampers him and surrounds him with luxury, yet he is lost. The craft room with jigsaw puzzles and origami holds no appeal.

He never was particularly safe in his workshop. He has made multiple trips to hospital emergency rooms over the years, blood streaming from some deep cut. But he found purpose and fulfillment there. More than that, his workshop has played an immense role in the Canadian Leprosy Mission. Dad has stripped insulation off of thousands of pounds of copper and aluminum wire. Sold for salvage, Dad and a partner have for multiple years raised $50,000 a year and more. In that same workshop a ladies group has sorted rags and rolled bandages. Lawnmowers and small appliances have been cleaned and repaired. A Bible For Missions Store in Red Deer, Alberta has been on the receiving end of those contributions, and because of them thousands of Bibles have been distributed world-wide. The workshop was a mission and Dad was a missionary. Now he’s surrounded with luxury, but feeling lost and useless.

A single lonely tree standing by the highway caught my attention on that trip. I passed it numerous times and it became a metaphor of Dad’s life.

Lonely Old Tree

There’s a lonely old tree by the highway.
It is blighted by lightning and hail.
It’s old and it’s worn. It’s alone and forlorn,
yet it spreads branches green without fail.

And the farmer’s sharp curse ever greets it
as he swings his big tractor around.
The branches that sway, just stand in the way,
so he’ll lay its old length on the ground.

For it stands all alone in the fence-row
though the fence has been taken away.
It is ancient and worn. It’s battered and torn.
Small beauty in its branches still sway.

A nuisance to the great cultivator
that rends a dark trail through the earth
where a forest once stood – a quiet, clean wood
and the tree long ago had its birth.

All the others to chainsaw have fallen
and the bight of the bulldozer’s blade.
The tree stands alone. Not a post or a stone
by this weary old source of thin shade.

And it stands half a mile from a neighbor
by the highway’s incessant harsh din.
It was twenty years past – it rubbed branches last,
quiet chatter with its closest kin.

And it is old and it’s worn and it’s battered
as it wearily stands in its place.
Still it pushes spring green, stands worn, but serene,
clothes the highway’s bare banks with quiet grace.

(Copyright Brian Austin)

As I age myself, I think somehow there must be a better way to deal with aging. All of Dad’s physical needs are met, yet he has lost what matters to him most. There was a house for sale just beside the retirement home when I was out there – with a garage. I’d give a lot today to be able to buy it, set up a workshop and then ask someone to check in on Dad a couple times a day. Yes, I’d worry that he’d bleed to death in there. But he’s bleeding to death now, without a visible wound showing. I wonder how many thousands are like him?

An Old Man’s Sorrow

They’ve surrounded him with luxury.
They’ve met his every need.
There’s a winsome smile and a good hot meal,
no need to sweat or bleed.

No need to labour through the hours,
toiling hard from day to day.
He has earned his rest – and earned it well.
Now he has a place to stay. . .

And bask in luxury for a while,
enjoy the pampered life.
He can take up gulf – go fishing,
or go on long walks with his wife.

But his workshop they have taken.
The auctioneer’s cry of “Sold!”
has stripped him of those well-worn tools
. . . left him smaller, weaker, old.

For the workshop’s where he laughed at life.
It’s also where he wept.
And somehow in that dusty place
a part of him was always kept.

And he’s lost it, though it did not sell
for no one knew it’s worth,
and little thought through the auction’s din
of the pain it brought to birth.

Now the dream’s become a nightmare.
Sears his heart as with a knife.
It has emptied from the living
the thrills and challenges of life.

And the luxury he’d surrender
without a second thought
could he just go back to that dusty room;
tools o’er a lifetime bought.

Could he earn a blister? Bleed a bit?
Get splinters in his hand?
Sweep fresh wood-shavings from the floor?
Does no one understand?

His health is good and he speaks his thanks
but still he grieves each day
o’er the worn tools in that workshop
they took and sold away.

The house is sold. The workshop gone.
Time relentlessly moves on
as an old man grieves midst luxury,
drained of purpose, hope and song.

(Copyright Brian Austin)