My intention today was to write about my favorite academic resource, The Chicago Manual of Style, the most comprehensive guide for research, writing, and publishing in all of Western culture (as far as I’m concerned). But instead, something came up in the cow pasture that reminded me how much the arts matter.
I was trying to drag a protein block. It’s like a massive bullion cube weighing 33.3 pounds, minus a few days of licks from the cows. And I needed to drag it from the north pasture to the south pasture. Across a lot of mud.
Back at the university, I thought I was strong. Hey, I lugged huge stacks of books daily from Southern Methodist University’s libraries to my music history, Russian, and German Culture classes. And while my limit is 50 pounds if it’s something malleable like a feed sack that can be clutched, a dense protein block does not fit that bill. So how does all of this match up with the arts?
The longer we live on our little ranch in Bowie, Texas, the more I appreciate what the arts meant to our forefathers. Their physical labor never ceased, nor the dangers they faced. Yet, they found time and energy to build instruments and play music. They wrote poetry on the scarce paper they had. They carved, welded, and hammered practical items into items of beauty. They added leather tooling to their jackets, and lace to their blouses. They sewed quilts into magnificent specimens of art with deep personal meaning.
In short, they took their few minutes of leisure and their limited resources to express themselves artistically. Days filled with sloughing through mud, chopping trees, and carrying water buckets left them thirsting for times when they could enjoy the sound of music. Or make delicate brushstrokes using colors steeped from berries and nuts. They didn’t have to be taught that the arts were critical to developing their higher nature as human beings.
So, did I get the block moved? Yes, but I’m glad only the cows and goats were watching. I tumbled it into an inverted plastic garbage-can lid, and dragged it the 300 feet it needed to go. Not far for a big burly pioneer, but plenty far for “Professor Carol.”
And above me the blue sky glistened. The same blue our pioneer women stitched into their quilts. The mud color is in those quilts too, framing the intricate geometric designs that still astonish us. Their art stands in contrast to their struggles: their quilts, their songs, poems and stories, and sometimes even their drawings and paintings. They took time for art. And left a testament to their achievements that inspires us today.
Image: Tim Morgan