I drove to Newport, from Massachusetts, following a wedding celebration for the daughter of a very dear friend of mine.
The day was sunny, the air temperature, marvellous.
I needed to see the mansions. They were in fact palaces, many of them including art and architecture reminiscent of the wonders of Rome, and right here in America, the Beautiful. I then ventured to the beach at the maw of Naragansett Bay.
Sailboats, like butterflies, danced in the distance. Waves caressed the shore; pretty bodies walked the sand.
My attention was held by a little boy. His pudgy hands held a plastic shovel with which he was building his own sand castle. There were, in fact, many pudgy little hands holding shovels all along the beach, building this and that. I thought, for some reason of Timothy McVeigh. This, after all, would be his last day to live; for tomorrow, he will be executed by the Federal Government of this land for murder, mayhem, and what the English have termed, "High Treason".
It occurred to me that many moons ago, this little boy might have been Timothy, holding that shovel. His Dad might have held a camera, and taken a photograph. How could he have known?
I thought of a great song written by Jonathan Edwards, upon the birth of his daughter, entitled, "Little Hands", in which he asks, of those little hands:
"Will they be as strong as an Oak, or graceful as a Willow?"
"Will they bake bread, or learn to play the fiddle?"
And I thought, and thought of those little hands in the sand:
Which will paint?
Which will sculpt?
Which will garden?
Which will play music?
Which will caress?
Which will calculate?
Which will write?
Which will hurt?
Which will torture?
Which will kill without feeling?
And behind my "Cheap Sunglasses", I shed a tear for the 168 who were murdered, including many pudgy little hands; but also for Timothy McVeigh.
Open Letter, from Newport, Rhode Island
Eugene
location: Maryland
listening to: Alexander Scriabin-The Solo Piano Works, Maria Lettberg
registered: 1999.08.12
posts: 3540
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Eugene
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I drove to Newport, from Massachusetts, following a wedding celebration for the daughter of a very dear friend of mine.
The day was sunny, the air temperature, marvellous.
I needed to see the mansions. They were in fact palaces, many of them including art and architecture reminiscent of the wonders of Rome, and right here in America, the Beautiful. I then ventured to the beach at the maw of Naragansett Bay.
Sailboats, like butterflies, danced in the distance. Waves caressed the shore; pretty bodies walked the sand.
My attention was held by a little boy. His pudgy hands held a plastic shovel with which he was building his own sand castle. There were, in fact, many pudgy little hands holding shovels all along the beach, building this and that. I thought, for some reason of Timothy McVeigh. This, after all, would be his last day to live; for tomorrow, he will be executed by the Federal Government of this land for murder, mayhem, and what the English have termed, "High Treason".
It occurred to me that many moons ago, this little boy might have been Timothy, holding that shovel. His Dad might have held a camera, and taken a photograph. How could he have known?
I thought of a great song written by Jonathan Edwards, upon the birth of his daughter, entitled, "Little Hands", in which he asks, of those little hands:
"Will they be as strong as an Oak, or graceful as a Willow?"
"Will they bake bread, or learn to play the fiddle?"
And I thought, and thought of those little hands in the sand:
Which will paint?
Which will sculpt?
Which will garden?
Which will play music?
Which will caress?
Which will calculate?
Which will write?
Which will hurt?
Which will torture?
Which will kill without feeling?
And behind my "Cheap Sunglasses", I shed a tear for the 168 who were murdered, including many pudgy little hands; but also for Timothy McVeigh.
The day was sunny, the air temperature, marvellous.
I needed to see the mansions. They were in fact palaces, many of them including art and architecture reminiscent of the wonders of Rome, and right here in America, the Beautiful. I then ventured to the beach at the maw of Naragansett Bay.
Sailboats, like butterflies, danced in the distance. Waves caressed the shore; pretty bodies walked the sand.
My attention was held by a little boy. His pudgy hands held a plastic shovel with which he was building his own sand castle. There were, in fact, many pudgy little hands holding shovels all along the beach, building this and that. I thought, for some reason of Timothy McVeigh. This, after all, would be his last day to live; for tomorrow, he will be executed by the Federal Government of this land for murder, mayhem, and what the English have termed, "High Treason".
It occurred to me that many moons ago, this little boy might have been Timothy, holding that shovel. His Dad might have held a camera, and taken a photograph. How could he have known?
I thought of a great song written by Jonathan Edwards, upon the birth of his daughter, entitled, "Little Hands", in which he asks, of those little hands:
"Will they be as strong as an Oak, or graceful as a Willow?"
"Will they bake bread, or learn to play the fiddle?"
And I thought, and thought of those little hands in the sand:
Which will paint?
Which will sculpt?
Which will garden?
Which will play music?
Which will caress?
Which will calculate?
Which will write?
Which will hurt?
Which will torture?
Which will kill without feeling?
And behind my "Cheap Sunglasses", I shed a tear for the 168 who were murdered, including many pudgy little hands; but also for Timothy McVeigh.
