And I must illustrate these tales,Must imitate the northern galesThat toss the native man’s canoe,And show the way he paddles, too.If in the story comes a bear,I have to pause and sniff the airAnd show the way he climbs the treesTo steal the honey from the bees. And then I buzz like angry beesAnd sting him on his nose and kneesAnd howl in pain, till mother cries:“That pair will never shut their eyes,While all that noise up there you make;You’re simply keeping them awake.“And then they whisper: “Just one more,“And once again I’m forced to roar. New stories every night they ask.And that is not an easy task;I have to be so many things,The frog that croaks, the lark that sings,The cunning fox, the frightened hen;But just last night they stumped me, whenThey wanted me to twist and squirmAnd imitate an angle worm. At last, they tumble off to sleep,And softly from their room I creepAnd brush and comb the shock of hairI tossed about to be a bear.Then mother says: “Well, I should sayYou’re just as much a child as they.“But you can bet I’ll not resignThat story telling job of mine. By Edgar A. Guest I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,there was always a cracked nail or two.And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,his thumb was a beautiful blue! They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,as strong as a carpenter’s vice.But holding a scared little boy at night,they seemed to me awfully nice! The sight of those hands - how impressive it wasin the eyes of his little boy.Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed(the effects of their office employ). I gave little thought in my formative yearsof the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts:The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits! Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,when one day my time is done.The torch of love in my own wrinkled handswill pass on to the hands of my son. I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and thereor the hammer that just seemed to slip.I want most of all when my son takes my hand,to feel that love lies in the grip. By David Ketter Like being the deep musicThat tells her all is rightWhen she awakens frantic withThe terrors of the night. Like being the great mountainThat rises in her heartAnd shows her how she might get homeWhen all else falls apart. Like giving her the loveThat is her sea and air,So diving deep or soaring highShe’ll always find him there. By Unknown Author By Unknown Author The roof has a leak and new shingles are waitingHis long list of “to-do’s” are accumulating.What’s so important to warrant delay?Does he think if ignored, they will just go away? How can this man with so much on his plateFind good cause and reason to procrastinate?It’s because he’s a man who is certainly wise.A giant of a man in his dear family’s eyes. A man who knows well his priorities,And chooses the moments important to seize.So where is this man with so much to be done?He’s in the backyard playing catch with his son. By Ron Tranmer
