Stories

Once I online, i unitentional read thiz story. I find it cool , so i decided to post thiz story here. Hope u all like it

STICKS
by Al Batt

It is an annual tra***ion.
We go to an aunt's farm and pick up sticks and rake her yard.
To be happy, a man needs something to do, something to love and
something to hope for. Picking up sticks fills the bill.
The cottonwood, box elder, oak and walnut trees drop a lot of
sticks
over a year's time. Windstorms cause the lawn to be covered with
sticks of
various sizes. It is hard and repetitive work -- bending and grabbing.
It
is a lesson for life -- you have to be down in order to get up.
I stopped by the rhubarb plants. While they are still too small
to
harvest, I drooled over the thoughts of future culinary delights.
I worked around the lilacs and could almost smell the flowers that
would be arriving in May.
I walked the yard, picking up sticks while I listening to the
songs of
the birds. I carried the sticks to the three separate brush piles
spaced
strategically, to save as many steps as possible. I tossed the sticks
onto
the ever-growing piles. Occasionally, I would pause and watch the
birds in
the trees.
The trees are survivors. They bend during storms. We could learn
a
lot from them. When life's winds blow, we need to bend in order to
keep
from breaking. The winds endeavor to take the trees a stick at a time,
but
the trees usually endure. The trees are like families; the sticks like
individuals. We pick up the sticks and go on. We make do.
My family turned one of the brush piles into a fire for roasting
hot
dogs and marshmallows. It was fun for the family to be able to get
together during a time when such gatherings are difficult to schedule.
We
talked about family things. Such discussions are my family's way of
picking up sticks.
We talked about those loved ones who have gone on before us. I
thought of my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles who have passed
away.
They were the branches in my family. I think of them often --
sometimes
with sadness.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of the children of the
family playing baseball. Sounds that let me know that life goes on.
Happiness is more often remembered than experienced.
That's why I pick up sticks.


Everyday is 1st April