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Donna asks…

(Camp fire Friday question)To what extream have you gone to in order to make your ceramonieal tools?

I went as far as to pay a Gold smith and a Carpenter to allow me the use of their shops to make my tools and other ceremonial necessities.

Dusty answers:

The only things I have purchased are as far as tools go are my carving tools that I make all my other tools out of. I believe if you can’t make it yourself and you have to go to some specialty store to get it than you aren’t living the spirit of the Aesir, (or Wicca since I know most aren’t of my path). I like that you actually made your own tools even if you had to pay someone to use their shop, that is so cool.

Rev MacOg of the Asatru

Ruth asks…

what are the differences between men &women? do you accept the invitation to treat them the same in everything?

some people honors the women and prevents them from some jobs that are not suitable for females and guides them to wear clothes that save them and gives them respect ..
they treated women as jewels that should be protected and given priority as they consider the death for protecting a woman a great honor ..

some other people allows women to do and work in any thing even a driver or a carpenter or a blacksmith and never mind that women should pay for themselves and the men are not responsible to provide for them and to wear what they want even they are nude ..
they thinks a woman as a tool to satisfy their needs whatever she did with neglecting anything else .. they use their body and beauty as a first thing to evaluate them plus their minds also..
which is right ? do you think women are more free by doing every thing whether right or wrong ?

Dusty answers:

The differences stem from cultural differences. Some women are not treated well at all. But in our “Western Culture” woman hold a more honored position, yet there is still discrimination against them in the working world.

Personally, and from an Etiquette point of view, I feel that ALL people ought to be respected, honored, and treated equally. But this is in an ideal world.

Have a polite day.

Michael asks…

Please read a critique? PLEASE??????

I have to write a short story for Creative Writing and this is what I’ve come up with so far. Please give me good feedback; this is for a grade! D:

I had this one dream once that everyone in the world was of Chinese origin. Don’t ask why, I probably overdosed the Asian food or something. But the really weird thing about this dream (besides the fact that everyone was Chinese) was that nobody spoke and we all communicated via codes and symbols that we carved into shiny wooden planks.
Most of my dreams tended to be this way –pointless and, well, odd. Still, they were dreams, figments of my overly complex mind, not anywhere at all near reality. And I never expected them to be. But when I first woke up from this one dream, I knew for sure that it was different from all the others.
See, my grandfather was a carpenter, and for many, many years (ever since he was a little boy to be exact) he had loved to engrave things into solid objects. He cut trees and used their bark for building furniture, statues, and many other things that he then sold. But the other leftover wood he would chop into little planks, no larger than my history textbook, and etch within their surfaces deliberate arts and designs. He used to let me paint these after he was done, back when I used to be a little boy. I loved helping him. I loved the way the planks would sit out in the faint evening breeze to dry, how they would glisten under the sun the next morning. Oh, how grandpa’s face would glow with pride. He’d pat me on the back and say, “Look at that, Seth. Look, my boy, how beautiful. Think of how proud your mother’s gonna be when she sees these!”
And my mother was happy with these. She hung them all around the house. Over and under her springtime paintings, in the kitchen above the sink, they also framed the fireplace in the living room. Soon, our house was filled with them. Every corner, every wall, every surface had a piece of grandpa and his designs. I even hung some in my room. But instead of pretty flowers and words from different languages, I asked grandpa to carve me things like planes and cars, guitars and drums, suns and moons that danced in the deep burgundy.
I had exactly twenty-three of those. Ten had musical instrument on them –the ones I could play, like violin, drums, and piano. Grandpa even made me one with a ukulele. I never learned how to play it, though grandpa promised he’d teach me. Still he insisted I had one, because it would remind me of him and how he used to play ukulele for us in the backyard on those warm summer nights. But then he made another seven with airplanes and speed cars on them; five had crescents; one was a dazzling sun.
The night I dreamt of these planks was the night of my grandpa’s first death anniversary. I spent the whole day out in his workplace –a little cabin beside our house with small glass windows. There, his tools and old, abandoned projects lay the same from when he left them. Paintbrushes remained dipped in open paint cans, dried and hard; woodchips coated the ground where you stepped; old axes, chainsaws, and chisels sat untouched on the dusty wooden surfaces. There was even one of his favorite comic books open to the page where he left off on his chair, I noticed with amusement. Some of these last touches of his seemed pretty creepy, I admit. But mostly they just triggered some kind of deep, stirring emotion inside of me –an ache, a missing. I’d mingled too much with my grandfather, and we were really close. Sometimes, I even thought I’d grew on to him a little too much. It only made it worst when he left, you see. I missed him a lot. And as I stood there, staring around his empty cabin, I was surprised to feel the tears streaming down my face.
I decided to stay there for the night. I didn’t feel like going back home, facing family and friends – happy faces who knew nothing of what it felt like to be a simple boy with no real talent but dream of sharp paint aromas and still feel comfort. Maybe they’d never know, and it wasn’t their fault. Still, I think I just needed some time alone. Losing someone as special as grandpa was never something you really got used to.

Dusty answers:

I enjoyed it, but two suggestions.

1) The dream at the beginning was kind of irrelevent to never be mentioned again. Maybe start with, “My grandfather was a carpenter.”

2) Break it up into paragraphs instead of a daunting wall of text.

Best Wishes!

Maria asks…

Why does my dad hate everything he considers “blue collar”?

He has a vivid and passionate hatred for anything involving tools or physical work. He kicked me out of the house when I applied to be a carpenter‘s apprentice when I was 19. He hates the fact that I lift weights, and I can see the disgust on his face.

One time we went into Auto Zone together to get an air filter, and he freaked out when the guy was explaining to him which tools to use… I thought he was going to run out of the store, he looked so uncomfortable.

When I was a kid we bought a bed from Ikea and he couldn’t assemble it so I had to do it. He was so angry and frustrating.

I don’t understand it, as I have a healthy respect for people that work with their hands. I think they are the few people in this country that have valuable skills and get to see the fruits of their labor at the end of the day. Is it just because he is mechanically disinclined and feels he is being “one-upped” by people with such skills?
I don’t want to teach him anything. I just want to understand why.. One can be not good at something without hating it, right?

Dusty answers:

Is your dad from “the old country”, or did he have a dad who spent his life working hard manual labor?

Your dad might just be trying to protect you from things he went through due to hardships that seemed to stem from manual labor. Or he might just have a distaste for manual work, thinking that people who are gifted should be doing “something more with their lives” (i.e. He probably thinks you can do better because he knows that you have a lot of potential).

Knowing parents, he loves you but has a hard time expressing it. Some older people do have what seem to be skewed points of view, but there is almost always a good reason why they think the way they do. Have you tried talking to him about it?

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