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A
good friend told me about his family's burial ground. The old graveyard is
located next to the property on which his family had been slaves up until the
civil war. After the war the slave owners whose name he bears and the slaves
who were his ancestors went on using the divided plot, slaves on one side, former
owners on the other.
The
tree was my friend. I don't know who planted it or when, but one day when I was
nine I noticed it standing there in our backyard in #Tulsa. Immediately we took
a liking to each other, the #willow and I.
Our
two-year-old grandchild takes command of the games we play together. Hide and
Seek is his favorite at the moment. But he arranges it in his own special way:
The old man stood at the top of the scaffold like some high priest making an awesome and sacred sacrifice. Around him stood the other plumbers, the older ones with their caps in hand, their hair wind-blown, their eyes moist and focused on the corner of the roof. The younger workmen, muffling their giggles like small girls with a secret, stood impatiently behind the older men and stared into the backs of the jackets.
Danish
friends who have read my book, "#Pieces: A Life in Eight Movements and a
Prelude" have often remarked that my English is extravagant. They have to
spend time looking up words. I never thought of that possibility when I was
working on the book. Writing English after such a long time continually
thrilled me; reconnecting with my former language reminded me of meeting an old
friend on a transatlantic cruise ship and retiring with a bottle of cognac and
two glasses to the library to converse for the duration.
You reach out the small paint brush and dip it into the water. A cloud of hazy blue puffs and billows at the top of the glass where the brush has been. Carefully you move the wet brush above and across the face of the picture you have been painting: two sailors on a boat in a lake beneath a mountain bathed in sunlight.
My
ancestor, Pastor Philipp Jacob Daler, was put on trial for heresy in 1726 in
Mullheim (then part of the Habsburg empire, now part of Germany) where he was
superintendent for the Marquis of Durlach. He was acquitted, but the judge
admonished him to think more carefully before he spoke and to drink a lot less.
I
can feel that old, dry hand reaching out of my mind to point out the way for
me. On the skinny arm I can see the worn, black sleeve, clean but threadbare. I
can feel its thrust, see its angry trembling.
"You
are doing it again! Wipe that grin off your face!"
Mea
Culpa. We are all intolerent. My upbringing was not unprejudiced. It took me
years of reading, experiencing, discussing and working at the problem to
approach a stage of openness, curiosity, and experience that would allow me in
quite a few situations to act with respect toward my fellow man. I still feel
that I have a lot to learn. That old reptilian brain is permanently coiled and
ready to defend itself against any and all foreign influences.
"No,
no! You cannot play the pirate captain! You're too little! The peg leg won't
even fit you. You'll look like you have a tree growing out of your knee."