Whet

Whet brings to mind blacksmiths from long years ago. Blade to the grinding wheel, sweat from brow as he pounds and molds hot metal. Soldiers at a quiet campfire, dressed in their blue or gray, enjoying the peace after battle, prepping for the morrow’s bullet and cannon storm. Cowboys around orange flames on a dark prairie desert, the smell of fresh beef and baked beans and chickory coffee lingering in the air. Coyotes yipping out amid the cacti and someone singing story songs of years gone by. Of a cool mountain creek and a small whetstone and the deft hands of a settler dressing his rabbit dinner. On his new homestead filled with wild beauty, he paves the way for generations he hasn’t yet met, or thought to think of. 

Of the tiny Northern saw whet owl whose shrill call I’ve never heard. And of the soft whinny of the Eastern screech owl whose quiet call I have. Or the barred gentlemen and ladies debating who will be chef from their perches amid the dark limbs. I can’t see their soft brown and white streaked feathers, gliding noiselessly as they perform a dance I don’t know the steps for. The mellow tenor of the barn owl, who sings alone in the middle of the night and, no doubt, watches me all the while with his large yellow eyes.

It brings to mind the kernel of desire always in the back of my mind to learn more and more, to discover more, to find out more about God’s creation and become intimately acquainted with the workings that not everyone notices. Those minute moments when others fly by at sixty miles an hour and never feel the wind on their faces or hear the lonesome calls and realize what they mean. When the past is connected to the present by my imagination, bringing to life old men who have long since passed away, remembering their contribution to make this country great and free. To forge new roads and discover new beauty. Whet is an old-fashioned word perfectly suited for this new generation gal. 

What does whet make you imagine or remember?

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