Saving The String

Living in today's contemporary world we forget the old ways. Are they really so outdated? Maybe..but I think we can take from them today and build on them in our modern fast lived life.

My own children lost their grandfather too early to learn the tricks to growing a garden and making flowers bloom bigger. Not that they would have been interested as children. I think about this now as dig in my garden and remember what my grandfather did. I don't come close to doing things as well as he did, but I have the memories tickling my mind as my hands dig through the soil. I smile to myself and dig a little deeper, making sure the soil is fine enough to pull any weeds that dare to creep upon my newly planted treasures. He certainly made his mark with his little remarks to us as children. We had no idea then, that his simple words would remain with us forever. We didn't even pay much attention at the time and I'm sure that he was aware of this too. If he only knew how much he gave to us without even trying. It wasn't in the form of a video game or new clothes, no, not by a long shot. He gave us words and actions to live by.

He taught us how to save the string. It seems that we have such an abundance of "things" today, that we throw away far too much without even thinking. I have created a "save the string" basket for myself. It's an "I might need it!" basket. I tend to still save the small pieces that are leftover and stick them in drawer. Far too soon the drawer is stuck and won't open for all the "pieces of leftovers". Something inside of me tells me they still have value and could come in handy for..something. I may not know what the something is when I cram it in the drawer, but I know it must still have value..because my grandfather taught me so.

A piece of string, a button and a bit of ribbon. Rubber bands that won't sting anymore..pencils of every length, but with erasers still good. Those are the things that he taught us to save, and more. I guess I have always had a string drawer. We didn't have a lot of pencils when I was growing up. I remember my first real eraser, that wasn't attached to a pencil. I treasured it and kept it in my very safe place. My brothers would have taken that eraser and used it all up if they knew where to find it, so I had to hide it. That was no easy task either!

Pencils were a favorite thing to me growing up. I wanted to grow up to be an artist. I loved to draw and spent much of my youth practicing on notebook paper...until I was told not to waste so much paper. I remember that day too well. My heart was crushed by the words. To me, it meant that my drawings were worthless. My father was my hero and rarely spoke harshly or unkindly. He didn't mean to crush my tender feelings, he was just a Dad trying to make ends meet with four kids to buy pencils and paper for, to be used at school. Not wasted on silly drawings that had no purpose.

I remember making some money by ironing for a lady. I was paid fifty cents per basket load and those clothes were crammed in that basket full! I would start out on those hot summer days, when the breeze through the window had died for the day, vigorously attacking that basket of ironing. After an hour or so, I would wish for that basket to shrink right before my eyes. No..I had to finish them in order to get paid and that was my goal. One time, I had saved enough money to buy a real pad of drawing paper and a charcoal pencil, charcoal, not lead! My very first real paper. I took it to my room and laid across the bed in front of my window. I couldn't dare draw the wrong thing because it would waste a sheet of my beloved paper. Such a simple thing, to those that had enough to waste. I did not. I was careful to not sharpen the pencil too much either, I couldn't bear to waste any of it.

My brother coveted that pad that I now owned and his lips twisted into a thin line as he tried his best to not ask to use it. Finally one day, as he sat beside me and wiggled the bed so I couldn't draw, I gave him a sheet from it. As soon as I had torn it from it's home, I knew that it was my biggest mistake..but the deed was done. My brother took the sheet of paper to his room and began to draw, nothing of consequence in my opinion.

Needless to say, he was soon back asking for more. I gave him a sheet that I had already drawn on and told him to use the back of it. He wasn't as happy as he had been by the clean new sheet of paper, but he left me alone. That gave me time to put my pad and pencil away, under the mattress. Knowing my brother well, I went outside to catch his attention so that he wouldn't be looking for the pad. As selfish as this sounds, to not want to share my paper, I didn't know how long it would be before I could buy more, so I had to save it as long as could. Do you know, I still feel the same way today about my special paper today, of course now it's photo paper that I treasure.

And so it began, hours of staring at the clean white sheet of paper, afraid to draw on it. It might not really be the right thing to draw. Because of this fear of wasting the paper, I began to look around for things to draw, the woods and the barns and the stumps of trees that had been cut. I would be sorely disappointed whenever I looked at my finished picture and it was out of balance. I somehow knew the importance of balance even then. If it didn't fill the page correctly, I always felt that I had wasted my opportunity and another sheet of precious paper. Not realizing it then, that all the wasted paper was teaching me along my path of worry. It taught me every time I began a new picture, to be more aware of the balance of the drawings, to the size of the paper. I didn't have a real teacher until we reached middle school, so I had to struggle with trying to get it right and better each time.

I did become the owner of many pads of paper of different sizes and textures along the way as I got older. My father eventually developed an appreciation for the drawings. He did not feel the need to provide them however. Always one to find a way to make a little money whenever opportunity knocked as a child, I found ways to buy my own paper and pencils. Living on a farm there was always some job to be done and occasionally it even paid a few dimes. If you save ten dimes, you have a dollar! That was my goal, to save enough dimes to make a dollar. I did hate picking blackberries for a nickel a quart though! It was a long hot day to pick a dollars worth! I guess in the whole scheme of things, ironing on a hot day inside, beat picking berries on a hot day outside anytime.

Saving the string has been a part of my life since childhood, so.. I still have the pieces of life that have drifted away..and it's ok.