The silent boy, p.18
The Silent Boy, page 18
Page 18
Our children grew up here, went away when they were grown, and brought their own little ones here to visit. Now the grandchildren bring theirs. Until his death last year, Austin, a historian, sat every day in his office, writing, and looked out at the creek rushing past. He said it helped him think.
I still hear it at night, the tumble and foam of the water, and sometimes, in my memory, I can hear the shoooda, shoooda, shoooda of the great grindstone and I picture the touched boy standing there, watching.
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Our children grew up here, went away when they were grown, and brought their own little ones here to visit. Now the grandchildren bring theirs. Until his death last year, Austin, a historian, sat every day in his office, writing, and looked out at the creek rushing past. He said it helped him think.
I still hear it at night, the tumble and foam of the water, and sometimes, in my memory, I can hear the shoooda, shoooda, shoooda of the great grindstone and I picture the touched boy standing there, watching.
