The Sun is one of my treasured reads. Each month the magazine brings me a new perspective on the world around me. When my copy comes in the mail (always a bit later than I expect), I turn to the last page for sunbeams and then I head for readers write. The rest of the magazine takes a full month to read, but those two sections are first. They help ground me for the coming month.
While reading "readers write" this month, I noticed that the next round af entries would be on the topic "playing with fire". I knew immediately that there was no time to submit my entry, as I had less than a week before the deadline. I sat down anyway, and the following essay was written.
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Playing With Fire
(a love letter to my parents)
My parents make their living playing with fire. They are artists, sculpting metal with welder’s tools.
The fire that they control has allowed our family to live a charmed life. We spent my childhood traveling from town to town exhibiting at craft fairs large and small, following the market. My concept of weekend boredom included trips to museums and restaurants in Manhattan and Philadelphia. Weekdays were spent in school in central Pennsylvania, in an area where Amish buggies were a daily sight. Because of our frequent trips to the city I missed a few sleepovers and birthday parties, but I gained wisdom, culture, and work experience (not to mention an extensive wardrobe!).
As a child I remember asking my parents why they did not have jobs like those of my friend’s parents. I wanted to visit them in an office, play with the electric typewriter, and drink from a water cooler. I wanted to stay home on weekends and spend two weeks every summer on vacation.
Instead, I had parents who worked in the basement of our home. Weekday afternoons I would return home from school, dump my backpack by the door and head downstairs. My parents would set their torches aside, and we would spend time talking. Whatever problems I had were discussed. Whatever achievements I’d accomplished were celebrated. After dinner as I climbed the stairs to my room to do homework, they returned to the fire that kept us warm and fed.
I have learned that the sculpture they create, using metal and fire, leaves a more lasting impression than the stroke of an office typewriter key. Water sipped from a mountain stream is more refreshing than water from a cooler depicting that same stream. Weekends are best spent wandering through the cultural offerings of a different city each week. Vacations during the “off season” allow your dollar to stretch farther, and offer more time to spend as a family instead of as tourists.
Beyond all else, I have learned that my parents stopped “playing” with fire long ago. They have learned to work with the fire, forging a mutual respect, molding objects at their will, mastering the elements to create beauty. Through fire they created our family. Through fire they create life.
(a love letter to my parents)
My parents make their living playing with fire. They are artists, sculpting metal with welder’s tools.
The fire that they control has allowed our family to live a charmed life. We spent my childhood traveling from town to town exhibiting at craft fairs large and small, following the market. My concept of weekend boredom included trips to museums and restaurants in Manhattan and Philadelphia. Weekdays were spent in school in central Pennsylvania, in an area where Amish buggies were a daily sight. Because of our frequent trips to the city I missed a few sleepovers and birthday parties, but I gained wisdom, culture, and work experience (not to mention an extensive wardrobe!).
As a child I remember asking my parents why they did not have jobs like those of my friend’s parents. I wanted to visit them in an office, play with the electric typewriter, and drink from a water cooler. I wanted to stay home on weekends and spend two weeks every summer on vacation.
Instead, I had parents who worked in the basement of our home. Weekday afternoons I would return home from school, dump my backpack by the door and head downstairs. My parents would set their torches aside, and we would spend time talking. Whatever problems I had were discussed. Whatever achievements I’d accomplished were celebrated. After dinner as I climbed the stairs to my room to do homework, they returned to the fire that kept us warm and fed.
I have learned that the sculpture they create, using metal and fire, leaves a more lasting impression than the stroke of an office typewriter key. Water sipped from a mountain stream is more refreshing than water from a cooler depicting that same stream. Weekends are best spent wandering through the cultural offerings of a different city each week. Vacations during the “off season” allow your dollar to stretch farther, and offer more time to spend as a family instead of as tourists.
Beyond all else, I have learned that my parents stopped “playing” with fire long ago. They have learned to work with the fire, forging a mutual respect, molding objects at their will, mastering the elements to create beauty. Through fire they created our family. Through fire they create life.
