V.C. Andrews - Shooting Stars 04 by Honey

Author:Honey
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-01-17T01:32:30+00:00

8

Making Beautiful Music

Despite his constant Bible-thumping and hell and damnation speeches. Grandad Forman was not a churchgoing man. In fact, he was highly critical of organized religion, calling it just another exploitation and therefore another playground for the devil.

Mommy chastised him for this, especially on Sunday when she. Daddy. and I would get dressed up and 20

to church. Uncle Simon was too shy about meeting people and being out in public, and Mommy never pressured him, but she and Grandad often argued about his refusal to attend the Lord's house of worship.

"I don't need no preacher to tell me what God wants of me and what He don't," Grandad insisted.

"You need to bow your head in the house of the Lord more than any of us," Mommy threw back at him.

Their eyes locked and Grandad left the room or walked away, mumbling to himself. He did spend his early Sunday time alone, reading his Bible, the pages of which were worn so thin, the edges were torn and yellow. From the time I was a little girl on, I was always fascinated by the way he gripped it in his hand, holding it tightly between his thumb and fingers as he would the handle of a hatchet or a hammer, sometimes waving it at one of us. especially Uncle Simon. When he did. Grandad's eyes were always brightened, luminous and shiny, resembling stones in a brook. After seeing Star Wars. I had a dream in which I saw a ray of light come out of Grandad's Bible, which he wielded like a sword over us all, even Uncle Simon.

Every Sunday. after I returned from church and changed into my jeans. I would hurry out to help Uncle Simon weed his garden and tend to his plants.

This Sunday I was very excited because I was going to give him his birthday present. Mommy had already told him about our special dinner, after which we would have his birthday cake. I found him on his knees, working around a patch of ginger lilies.

Everything I knew about flowers. I knew because of Uncle Simon.

It was a particularly beautiful late spring day with a breeze as gentle as a soft kiss caressing my face. Against the western sky_ , I saw a string of clouds so thin they looked like strips of gauze. A flock of geese in their perfect V-formation were making their way farther north. What a wonderful day for a birthday I thought.

As I approached Uncle Simon. I could hear him muttering lovingly to his flowers. It brought a smile to my face. As if he had known where my uncle Simon was this morning, the minister had preached about a respect for life and how that gave us a deeper appreciation of ourselves, our own souls. and God's precious gifts.

"Happy birthday, Uncle Simon," I said, and he turned quickly and looked up at me, his bushy eyebrows lifting like two sleeping caterpillars. He looked from me to the gift box in my hands, and then wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and stood up.

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