Stone Pony

I have been  painting signs for thirty nine years, but this guy was doing that long before I was born.

Sharpening Stone

     As a child, growing up in rural Henry county, a couple hundred yards from the Dale county line, there was not a lot going on.  We had to find entertainment where it was.  Sometimes that was anything out of the ordinary.  Using the sharpening stone was just one such entertainment, and I was providing a valuable service in the meantime.  Or so I thought.  The stone was set up just outside the wash house, where Grannie did all the laundry.  I barely remember her boiling the clothes in an old syrup kettle, but then she was able to get an old wringer type washing machine.  Even though she got her hands caught several times, she was proud of that machine for it freed up half her day to do other chores, not realizing that she could just rest a little bit.  As a young boy, I had plenty of energy and turned that stone much faster than it should be.  If she looked out the window and saw me turning it, she would come out and admonish me to sharpen things a little slower.
     Whenever we drove up, daddy would always park near the wash house.  There was a spicket between the stone and the wash house.  Out of that faucet came the sweetest water that God ever created.  Starting with daddy we would stand in line and drink out of the spicket.  After daddy came Wane, Benny and then me.  I didn't mind though, because by the time I got my turn the water had cooled off.  I won't say that this is the fountain of youth, but since Benny inherited the home site, he should live a long and prosperous life.
     A couple of years ago, Sheila and I were cleaning out grandpa's gully.  I was looking for something that he had thrown away that I might could repurpose.  There was nothing that had any value, monetary or sentimental.  We sold all the scrap metal and burned the trash.  When that was completed I carried my backhoe over to dress up around the gully.  As I stood there surveying my next move, I looked down between my feet.  There, a broken stone looked up at me and smiled.  It was part of the sharpening stone that I had used over fifty five years ago.  No telling how many times we had stepped over it.  That meant more to me than any of the Indian artifacts I have found over there.

BOGO

 

 

 

 

New carving in cedar, that I just finished.