To mark the row he laid scrap boards,
Old, splintery, but nearly straight,
So I would have firm place to walk,
And kneel when I began my work.
Another need these old boards met:
They served me as a guiding line—
The onion sets I was to plant
Would roughly parallel their edge.
He said this was my row to plant—
He'd stay close if I wanted help,
But the sure guide he'd laid for me
Would keep me were he called away.
And so I planted onion sets
(a gardener at two plus years)
While grandpa knelt and closely watched,
Not critically, but with great care.
I'm sure I did the best I could—
I'm also sure I missed his mark
Sometimes. The row I'd set, not true,
Yet was not aimless after all.
The guide he'd placed for me to use
Left me the freedom of my reach.
I could plant far; I could plant near;
It all depended on my choice.
That's why my onions wandered on
A course best labeled serpentine.
My labor he let stand as was,
Not perfect, but within the bounds.
You'd teach a child? Provide a guide
For him and, having done so, watch
His progress. You will be amazed
How often he will hit your mark.

— for Grover

Volume 1, Issue 1, 2006