My hands do not know the meaning of the word craft, for they have never created anything worthy for public viewing since I’ve been born.  I’m rather like something my father-in-law once said when asked if he did all the carpentry work on the house he’d had built.  His response was comical and to the point:  “Hell no.  I couldn’t put a cobb handle on a file.”  So, that pretty much sums up my artistic abilities when it comes to using my hands.  In college I enrolled in an art education class, one wherein the ability to be slightly creative was one of the necessary evils to get through the course.  I simply lacked the ability to mold this and sew that in order to make it look like anything other than a preschooler had created it.  However, there was one project the professor would have us do, on occasion, that I seemed to be able to perform with the greatest of ease.  He would have us brainstorm, individually, making a list of as many things as we could think of that we could do with, let’s say, a toothpick or perhaps a brick.  I could think of hundreds of things to do with a toothpick, and I think my best idea for using one, other than to pick my teeth, was to use it as a splint for a broken bird’s leg.   Then again, that would all depend on the size of the bird with the broken leg.  Since I’m not talented with crafts, I have turned to offer my hand at creative writing.  I’m not saying I’m good at it; I am merely stating, at this juncture, that I enjoy it.  Shakespeare and others were in a league of their own.  But it has developed into a hobby that I receive intense pleasure from doing.  There is a sense of guilt for whiling away most of my days just letting my thoughts flow through my fingertips.  But happiness wins out over guilt, so I shall continue doing it and leave the art of craftsmanship and other skills to all the Michelangelo’s of this world.