The Lace Panel & Red Cowboy Hat

The Lace Panel

And they rocked, this man and his wife, Katarina. "Katia," he called her. for 52 years, before their daughter was born, they sat on this porch, Their rockers moving in independent yet compatible rhythms. Katia rocked with her small hands winding bobbins of whit cotton thread around a wooden frame, creating lace. Delicate lace. Intricate designs more beautiful than those of a spider's web.

Often, since he had retired, the man looked at his hands. His thick fingers callused from the tools, hammers he wielded most of his life. How useless they seemed to him when he watched his Katia.

And Katia smiled. It was a pleasant, kind smile. But that was his Katia, pleasant and kind and good.

"Sing, Katia," he said.

Katia looked at him, her blue eyes questioning.

"Sing for me," his voice grew a regal tone as his hands covered his heart.

And Katia began in a small voice.

"Like a mouse you squeak, roar like a lion."

Katia drew in a breath and increased her volume.

"No, Katia, like this,' and his voice rose above hers until she stopped. "You are too good to sing with me?"

"No, fredryk, you are too good for me." Katia's hands never ceased winding the threads.

Fredryk smiled, but he was only partially content, though he continued to rock.

Soon, he became bored.

"Katia," he pushed himself from his chair, "Will you dance with me?" He extended his hand.

"There is no music."

"We need no music."

"Yes, Fredryk, we do." Katia looked to him, her hands continuing their task. "I do not hold a rhythm within me as you do."

Fredryk's chest puffed slightly, and he returned to his chair.

As they sat, Katia continued and more lace cells developed; each one complimenting the other. Fredryk studied the lace panel that was now forming, each time he saw it, it was more beautiful.

"How long have you worked on this one?"

"Three days," Katia responded.

"And who will it be for? Our daughter? Our grandson and his wife?" Fredryk's voice poked at her. "Who will it be for this time?"

Katia set the bobbins and frame on a small oak table next to the rocker. A table Fredryk had built. And she looked at her husband, his forehead furrowed, his eyes wounded, and her eyes grew soft.

"For you, Fredryk," she told him.

Fredryk's cheeks grew hot, "I do not use lace."

"It is for you, Fredryk."

Fredryk scowled.

"Make a net of it. The holes are small, and it is strong. It would hold the weight of a great fish."

Katia retrieved a pair of scissors from her sewing box when Fredryk stopped her.

"If the panel is for me, I should choose how it is to be used."

Katia agreed.

"Then make it large," he said. "Large enough to cover a table."

"What kind of table?"

"A dining table. A rectangular table. One with pawed legs and a beveled top. And it will be made from oak. Thick oak." Fredryk gaited from the room and returned with paper and pencil and began to sketch a table.

@Texas Tales


Ambush
You locked me in the closet and the more I fight to get out the more you laugh.

You got me this time.

Just wait, your clothes are in the closet, too.

@ Texas Tales




The Red Cowboy Hat

You look ridiculous in that hat,
The way you wear it tilted on your head,
And the color red, all wrong.
You never would let me wear that hat.
I didn't speak to you for a whole week.

It wasn't until Hermann our lizard died that you crossed the street.
You told me you were sorry,
And you offered to let me wear your cowboy hat.
I said I didn't want to,
that the hat looked ridiculous
And the color red, it was all wrong.