From: plp1@Ra.MsState.Edu (pat parker)
Subject: _Grandfather_
Organization: Mississippi State University
Date: Thu, 30 Jul 1992 06:04:10 GMT


_Grandfather_

by Pat Parker
July, 1992

plp1@ra.msstate.edu
______________________________________________________________________________

     Nobody knew if grandfather could actually see or not; nobody had known
for years.  He didn't have any trouble getting around, though.  If he couldn't
see, then he had some other sense that was beyond our comprehension.  If he
could see, then it was a miracle, because one of his eyes was glazed over with
a white film and the other was hidden beneath the massive creases and
crevasses that lined his cheeks and forehead.
     The skin, besides being wrinkled, was spotted and rough from years of
exposure to the sun.  Whenever he bathed it hung down from the backs of his
arms where he'd once had impressive muscles.  The skin on the back of his
hands was stretched thin over knuckles that were gnarled like the oaks that
shaded the rear of his home.
     We - my sister and I - would spend the summers at his home on the cliffs
of the bay.  Those were generally lazy summers, even though he made us do our
share of chores.
     We three would go fishing in the mornings.  Grandfather didn't like the
idea that my sister would enjoy fishing and walking in the sun.  He thought it
proper for women to remain at home and cook the fish that the men pulled from
the bay - the way grandmother had when she was alive.  He realized though,
that times were changing, and didn't allow the inevitable replacement of his
values with those of a younger generation to perturb him greatly.
     In the evenings, after supper, we would walk westward from his home into
his garden.  The garden was on the edge of the cliff and there were three
small plum trees bordering it; keeping the land, it seemed, from sliding over
the edge onto the rocks below.  He would pick a pair of large green plums, one
for me and one for him, and a single orange-red plum for my sister - she
didn't like the green ones.
     And there we would sit on a bench in his garden, looking out at the sun
setting over the rocks on the other side of the bay, and we would listen to
grandfather tell marvelous stories about his childhood.  I remember one of
those stories vividly, and whenever I recall that particular story it always
reminds me of the summers on the cliffs.
     He was young then, less than sixteen years old, when he travelled across
the island to the feet of the master during one of the trials of
apprenticeship.  The master was old then, and when grandfather told us of the
master's great age, I imagined that the master looked like my grandfather.
     Each year, young men from all over the islands converged upon the master
seeking to be apprenticed to him.  Seeking to learn the way.  Each year the
master turned away countless requests, and at the time of grandfather's youth,
had not taken an apprentice in many years.
     This year was the same.  Countless young faces, including grandfather's,
gathered in the courtyard of the master's home to make their petitions.  One
by one, the master tried the disciples' ability with the bokken or jo, and one
by one they crawled, battered and bruised, away from the master's feet.  Thus
it came grandfather's turn to be tried.
     Grandfather looked up from the edge of the courtyard.  He had been
afraid, watching the master bludgeon the petitioners, seemingly without mercy,
but when it came his turn the fear faded into a hopeless courage.  He had
already lost, he thought, but after such a long journey he would at least make
an attempt.
     He stood up as the previous victim dragged himself out of the courtyard,
nose broken and bleeding.  Grandfather put the injured man out of his mind;
didn't even see him.  His attention was on the venerable master who had turned
toward grandfather, bokken held in one hand with the tip resting on the
ground.
     Grandfather took a step forward and stooped to pick the injured man's
bokken up from where it had been abandoned.  He did not take his eyes off the
master, who stood in the center of the courtyard, still as a tree, bokken
resting against the ground.
     Grandfather picked up the wooden sword and raised it above his head,
holding it with both hands, stretching his shoulders.  Then with a smooth
circular motion that he had seen other swordsmen use, he pulled the bokken to
his right shoulder, the point facing the heavens.
     The master had still not moved.  His weapon was still at rest. 
Grandfather took a deep breath, and with the courage of the condemned, rushed
toward the master.  When he was within three feet of the master, he screamed
and the weapon dropped in a vicious slash aimed directly at the master's
topknot.
     Grandfather said the master's demonstration of skill at that moment was
truly awe-inspiring.  He said that it was as if the master, being made of rice
paper, was blown from the sword's path by the wind created by the passing of
the sword itself.  Grandfather stopped his rush when he realized the master
was no longer in front of him, but before he could wheel around to defend
himself he felt the master's bokken lying against his throat perfectly
motionless.  At that moment the master spoke.
     "That was a masterful attack.  Shall we try again?"
     Then my grandfather, seeing the perfection of the master's movement,
threw down his sword and fled, never understanding why he was spared a
beating by the master.  He fled back to his home, determined never to raise a
sword again, and lived his life on the cliffs overlooking the bay.
     Grandfather never regretted the life he led after that, and never forgot
the perfection of the master's movement.