The first side is sanded and now I am starting to route flat the other side. I believe this second side will go even better, as I am clamping down onto a flat side. I have just started and the cuts seem to be more uniform. This seems like progress to me.
Earlier today, I got a message on Linkedin from a friend. She had found a writing contest, which required that one submit a story, under 300 words, using purple, tree, and glockenspiel. I felt that the gauntlet had been tossed at my feet, and I was ready for the challenge. A little while ago, when I took a break from my woodworking, I sat down and wrote my story. The story did not need to be about a glockenspiel, but I decided that I would make that my main character. I submitted it, comfortable in the knowledge that it is complete rubbish, but that I had finished the challenge. I can’t wait to read my friends version, as she is a good writer.
Sadly, I may have sapped all of my daily allotment of creative juices for the day. So I don’t seem to have anything funny or entertaining to say, regarding woodworking. That is too bad, but such is life. So here is the story about the tiny glockenspiel. It is really quite dreadful, but it is 298 words!
The Tiny Glockenspiel
Resting on a table made from the Peltogyne tree, more commonly called, Purple Heart, was the tiny glockenspiel. It has been there long enough that one could measure the time with a simple wipe of a finger across the dusty bars. A fine instrument, one that brought melodies to the ear and smiles to the faces of many football fans waiting for the second half. Those were the little glockenspiels happiest days.
He didn’t get to attend college with his player. High school days, and marching under the Friday night lights, had been replaced by lectures and beers with friends. The little glockenspiel didn’t figure into those plans, and so, he sat, on the tiny table, with a song, unsung, in his tiny heart.
From the table into a box he went, and the time passed. His little steel bars yearned to ring out, especially middle c. The tiny glockenspiel became resigned to his dark lonely world. He could hear things going on outside, he knew that there were people moving about, he heard them talking. He heard the voice of his player now and again.
He heard his player talking with her parents; she had brought a boy home to meet them. She showed the boy her room. He teased her about her posters and the band uniform hanging in her closet.
The lid of the box opened, the player took out the tiny glockenspiel, and rested it on her round belly. She hammered a few bars and sang, “Hush little baby…”, then whispered, “This will be yours one day”, while she rubbed her belly. The notes were clear; the glockenspiel was, for the first time in years, happy. She polished it, treasured it, and never put it in a box or out of her mind again.
So that was what I wrote. I realize it was abysmal and that you will never get that ninety seconds of your life back, but in my defense, I did tell you it was going to stink, so if you are reading this sentence, you have no one to blame but yourself.
One of the reasons it is just awful, is that I don’t believe glockenspiels come in different sizes. Maybe they do, but I just can’t imagine it. In retrospect, I think I should have tried to be funny, as I am sure I would have done a better job. Oh well, sometimes one, with delusions of wordsmith, pounds out a real disaster. It is a shame though, because glockenspiel is a funny word. I truly feel like I have squandered an opportunity.
I think I will go downstairs and get back to woodworking.
-- Brian Meeks, http://extremelyaverage.com