the homesteaders daughter: Ignorance is Always Swift to Speak

Monday, September 7, 2009

Ignorance is Always Swift to Speak

One of the favorite stories of Arturo Toscanini, the great symphony conductor was this: An orchestra was playing

Beethoven's Lenore overture, which has two great musical climaxes. Each of these musical high points is followed

by a trumpet passage, which the composer intended to be played offstage. The first climax arrived, but no

sound came from a trumpet off stage. The conductor, annoyed, went on to the second musical high point. But,

again, --no trumpet could be heard. This time the conductor rushed into the wings, fuming and with every intent

of demanding a full explanation. There he found the trumpet player struggling with the house security man who

was insisting as he held for dear life onto the man's trumpet. "I tell you, you can't play that trumpet back here

You'll disturb the rehearsal!"

Until you know WHY someone is acting the way they do, it's better not to criticize him. Until you know who has

told him to, it's better not to attempt to stop him!

Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath James I:19

2 comments:

KathyB.September 7, 2009 at 10:58 PM
This is so true, Audrey. So often, years later...a criticism I remember uttering against someone or something comes to mind as I find myself perpetrating the same thing I once criticized, only to know NOW I knew not the whole truth of the matter.I think that is why we all know time changes perspective, and more often makes us kinder. (time does NOT change TRUTH, but sometimes reveals the whole truth )
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DeannaSeptember 20, 2009 at 8:43 PM
Dear One,
Enjoyed this story!
d
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A Little bit about the grandparents

I consider myself blessed to have known my paternal great-grandparents. Allie and Knapp were a couple straight out of "Little House on the Prairie. They lost a child while still in Kansas and soon after traveled to Washington state where they homesteaded a goodly piece of land and proceeded to build a beautiful farm where the flowers bloomed with abundance to match the fruit of the orchard and the fields of grain.

Their second son, Glenn married Pearl, had a son by her but she gave her life to bring him forth. She died when her baby son, Lloyd, was born. The grandparents raised the boy while Glennn married a young woman named Beulah. They had two boys, but grandson, Lloyd stayed on with them . when he was 8 years-old his father, Glenn was killed by a truck load of logs that rolled off a train and crushed him to pieces.

Their lives seemed one long tragedy, yet love was more alive there than most any other place I have ever been. My father, Lloyd married Maudie Clark and I was their first child, born in our own little house on the Moore property. How could anything so right go so terribly wrong??

By the time I came along the grandparents were in their 80's and life happened. My parents divorced and though I stauyd mainly with my mother I spent a great deal of time with my dad and Grandpa and Grandma on the farm...or what was left of it by this time.

There never was running water in the, "big" house or an inside toilet and only limited electricity.

On most days Grandma sat in the parlor in her rocker in front of a standing radio and two windows where the honeysuckle smiled- in during the summer months; the Bible at her side.

The kitchen floor sank in a little and the oil-cloth on the big square table
was worn from the meals that had been served there. A kerosene lamp stood there also and somehow it always smelled like apple pie.

My grandma was just under 5 feet tall, with grey hair pulled back in a bun and little tiny feet. She could not see well and wore thick glasses, maybe not a pretty picture to anyone else but a matchless queen to me, and whenever she asked me to go to her closet and bring a certain box to her side I knew I was about to see wonderous things or to hear grand stories

My family's history was in those boxes and over the few years that I had my dear great-grandparents I learned who I was. Grandpa had his tales to tell also. One such story was the one about a horse kicking him in the chest and he DID seems to have a hoof print in that spot.

Grandpa chewed...tobacco that is... and watching him bite off a chunk of the rich chocolate colored stuff was very tempting. My mother told me that when she was expecting me she was so overcome with temptation that she snuck a piece of the tobacco when Grandpa wasn't looking and had her chew...and spent some time with her head hanging over the dandelion field behind the house.

Grandpa Knapp was an unusual fella. Once a year the grandparents house was scrubbed inside with calsomine, a white paint-like substance. He had to walk to the paint store which was a good 5 miles one way. His walks were going to become a problem later on after Grandma was gone but that will have to come later.