The Virginian-Pilot
                             THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT 
              Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: Sunday, January 26, 1997              TAG: 9701230141
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST          PAGE: 02   EDITION: FINAL 
TYPE: Editorial 
SOURCE: Ronald L. Speer 
                                            LENGTH:   69 lines

LORD, PLEASE GIVE ME PATIENCE, RIGHT NOW!

My ancestors were pretty good to me, passing down a variety of skills and knowledge that make my life full.

Not rich, mind you, but full.

My mom, a one-room school teacher as a teenager, introduced me to the exciting world of books. My dad, a Nebraska cowboy, taught me how to break a horse, hunt, trap, plow, cultivate, grow a garden, saw boards, hammer nails and make all manner of things with my hands.

My Irish aunts and uncles passed on their conviction that life is too short to waste any of it whining, and showed me how to have fun even if you don't have much money. The harsh battle to survive in the Sand Hills by my homesteading grandpa convinced me that the good old days weren't all that good.

I feel fortunate about my inheritance, because all those kinfolk helped me find dozens of ways to enrich my life.

But those ancestors shortchanged me in one area: Patience.

I don't have any.

And that flaw was hammered home last week when I put the finishing touches on the first real keeper I've made in the pottery class I'm taking at Pocosin Arts in Columbia.

I'm proud of that pot, and wanted to design it with something special. I was delighted when Pocosin's Feather Phillips found a symbol the Sioux Indians used for a fast horse, and decided to carve it on the inside of the vase, which I hope my heirs will admire for generations.

I thought about drawing a few practice horses. But my impatience to see how wonderful they'd look on the pot took over. I grabbed a carving tool and went to work.

Slash. Slash. Slash. Three symbols were quickly cut into the clay.

None of them looked in the least like a fast horse. Maybeeee . . . if I pointed out what I had meant to carve . . . you might think one of them looked like a slow, fat pony. But probably not.

I felt awful, and decided to start over. But the kiln was ready, and if I didn't fire the pot immediately, I'd have to wait until the next class and the next firing. That would mean I wouldn't see the finished product of what I had wrought for a couple of weeks.

So into the kiln the pot went. And I doubt any heirs will marvel at my work.

Once again, I was done in by impatience.

That trait rules my life. When I'm planting radish seeds the size of sand, I start out pushing them deliberately into the ground, one at a time. But that seems like it's taking forever. So soon I'm scattering them by the handful. When they come up, they need thinning. And that takes forever. So I yank the sprouts out by the dozens and pretty soon there is nothing left to enjoy.

If I start building a bookcase Saturday morning that I want to enjoy until I die, I somehow feel it must be finished by by the end of the weekend - even if it means some shabby shortcuts.

It's a good thing they didn't hire me to decorate the Sistine Chapel. Or put me in charge of building the pyramids. I can't imagine painting the same picture for years, or laying stone blocks on the same building for centuries. And I definitely wouldn't be a happy camper if I were a member of the state's Moratorium Steering Committee that has spent more than two years reviewing every fishing rule in North Carolina.

It's a good thing nobody told me when I started school that I'd be in class for 16 years, or I'd have never started.

If I were an expectant mother, nine months would seem forever. Tree farming isn't for me, obviously.

Nope, I'm afraid I need instant gratification. It's too late now to swap my bronc-taming skills for a big dose of patience. About all I can do is pray that old prayer:

``Please, Lord, give me patience - and I want it right now!''


by CNB