WELCOME September 27, 1999 Issue

To Our Readers

William E. Moody

My Grandfather Was kind, wise, gentle. He could peel an orange with his pocket knife in a way that would leave the peel in a perfect spiral, without ever breaking it. He took my brother and me on adventures to Bullfrog Creek and Lithia Springs and down the Alafia River to explore a shell mound left by the Native Americans a thousand years earlier. He always had a twinkle in his eyes that told me his warm laugh was never far away.

That was how I saw him when I was a boy. I never would have thought of him as "old." He was good. He was my grandpa.

Now, when I look back, I realize it was all those fine qualities and the love in him that I responded to. Whatever his age was, it didn't matter to me at all. I've also come to see that old, like so many other things, is essentially a state of thought. It's tired thought that has lost joy in the good that life holds, and has also let go of an expectancy of the good to come.

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