My Grandpa

By Stacey Cluney

A gray bearded man sits on a low stool. Decades of laughter appear in the countless lines engraved on his gentle face. In his lap he holds a slender, curving instrument. Ancient melodies floating on the air as his callused finger slides from fret to fret and his pick strums zealously. The sound is irresistible. People are drawn to him like a magnet. He captures a piece of the past in every song.

This same old man can freeze a special moment in time - the evening sun on a snow capped mountain, a child's innocence, a majestic sunset, a weather beaten farmhouse - with a paintbrush and watercolors. Through these tools he creates new ideas - new life. His paintings tell timeless stories preserved for generations to come.

With every new painting and every new attempt at playing the dulcimer, I struggle to become what he is - but continue to fall short of my lofty goal. I yearn to carry on the tradition. Perhaps I, Like my grandfather, will have within me the power to keep the past alive.