Tag Archives: Childhood Memories

Riches and Beauty

29 Wednesday Sep 2010

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, The Great Outdoors

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

, , ,

That gnarly old Magnolia outside my bedroom window is looking good — for the first time in years.

And I am amazed this should be so, given the trials the tree has endured.  First there was the long drought of 2006 with triple digit temperatures — then the one-two punch it suffered in 2007 — a crippling ice storm preceded by a sewer line replacement that sliced and diced deep roots on its western boundary.  And as if these indignities weren’t enough, I delivered what I later feared to be its down-for-the-count  knock-out when, in 2008, I severed two sides of feeder roots with my new flagstone path.

But today, under a gorgeous blue autumn sky, the Magnolia’s large waxy leaves cup sunshine while its coral seed pods look like Christmas lights shimmering across a full canopy. In a polar-opposite way, my window view reminds me of other trees I saw today, getting spruced up for the holidays.   Uptown on Western Avenue, patient, capable hands of a local landscape crew were busy stringing twinkling lights on a large number of tall trees bordering a large corporate campus.  From tree trunk to limb to branch, the crews worked its way up to the big blue sky, covering each tree in tight ringlets of all shades of light.

Mother had a favorite saying about the life of “the rich,” and if any trees in our neck of the woods are “rich,” it’s these that live on the well-groomed grounds of Chesapeake Energy.  Mom always spoke these words in response to my own observation of how beautiful some rich or famous person was — like Jackie O for instance — that I’d run across in the pages of a glossy magazine.

I’d say my “how pretty” bit.  Then, Mom would look up from her sewing to peek at whoever had garnished my compliment — and without fail —  she’d hmmph her way to a comeback:  “It’s easy to look good when you’re rich.  I’d look good too with her money.”

I never paid these particular words of Mom much mind.  And today was no different — when I sat down to write for the first time in two weeks, Mother’s oft spoken words on the “rich and the beautiful” were the furthest thing from my mind.  But rising out of the big blue yonder, they came home to roost in my Magnolia tree, with a will and life of their own.

As I sat contrasting the natural beauty of my poor Job tree against the gussied up beauty of the well-heeled trees of my rich neighbor, all I could think of was Mother’s same old words.

Overcoming Hurdles

15 Wednesday Sep 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care, Writing

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

My friend Anne doesn’t ‘do’ computers. But no hurdle is high enough to stand in Anne’s way;  the one she cleared Sunday evening  — of tracking down her long lost friend ‘me’ —  took over three months and help from her husband and oldest daughter.

It had been twenty-four years since Anne and I had talked.  And before that, ten.  Two conversations in the space of thirty-four years is scary witness of the fragility of personal relationships.  Once a close friend,  Ann served as one of my three bridesmaids; she was a staple of high school years, though seeds of friendship were first sown in the sixth grade Camp Fire group which my mother led.   I had forgotten this last connection until Anne reminded me of it Sunday night.  But, of course, the intervening years and physical distance lulled me into forgetting something more important.

While I was forgetting, Anne has been in the business of making connections.   That’s how Anne approaches each day — she wakes up and says out loud to God, “Okay God, what are we going to do together today?” I’m not kidding.  And I don’t think Anne is either.  Because Anne lives her life doing one good deed after another.

Anne littered our two-hour conversation with evidence, though not to make a case.  She talked in the matter-of-fact way of catching me up on the last 34 years of her life.    Until recently, Anne devoted  herself to the care of an elderly woman.   They had no ties to one another, but a tie was built, as the eighty-year old grew to depend upon Anne’s time.

As I write, Ann has a young mother and an infant living with her — Anne offers free care to the infant so that the young mother can work.  And there have been eleven other  people before this, people who needed a helping hand and a place to call home.

A few weeks ago Anne ran into a woman in K-Mart, while picking up some little item.  She noticed a customer with a shopping cart full of  household goods.  The cart proved catalyst for good conversation — one sentence led to another before the woman told Anne she was new in town, that she was buying the household items due to her recent move.   A veteran of twelve moves herself, Anne convinced her fellow K-Mart shopper to empty her cart of those items which Anne had at home — then the woman allowed her daughter go with Anne (the stranger) to Anne’s house, so that the woman’s daughter could bring back Anne’s offering.

Anne makes light of the way she lives.  But after our conversation, I began to wonder:  What would the world come to if we had more Anne’s — if we had more strangers — or even close friends and family — like Anne?  It was news of Daddy’s death which caused Anne to overcome the hurdle Sunday night.  She tracked me down because she had read of Daddy’s death and wanted to let me know how very sorry she was.  When she heard the news about Mother, she let me know how she had loved spending time at my house growing up, how Mom and our house had been her refuge.

All that to say this:  We can never know how our lives will impact another — for good or ill.  Nor do we realize the incredible power we hold to do good for each other.  And even when aware of the simple good we do —  like making others feel welcome in our home as Mother did — even then, we can’t  fully appreciate the good that will someday grow from our own.

Good ripples through life, without boundaries.  Good overcomes hurdles.  Good even sneaks up to catch us unaware — only after we broke our connection Sunday evening did I realize… that I had been Anne’s good deed for the day.

Taking Smaller Pictures

21 Saturday Aug 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , ,

“I am a home movie, with endless shots of friends and relations.”
— Frederick Buechner, Alphabet of Grace

A summer frolic between young cousins changes to winter play without fanfare.  The young actors and stage are constants.  But key scenery changes unlock the passage of time — green grass fades to yellow, a young girl and boy trade lawn cotton costumes for blue winter coats.

In my youth, the stage for Sunday afternoons was always Granny’s front yard and porch.  Old fashioned games of hide and seek, Easter egg hunts were all held there.  I can recall many baseball games held there too that divided our large family in two.  Granddad always played and all the kids and their spouses.  Trees subbed as running bases while appropriately, home base rested near the steps of Granny’s front porch.

The preliminaries involved Southern scratch cooking at its best.  But we grand-kids never lingered over our plates.  Without guilt of leaving food behind, we’d rush out the side screen door to play.  I imagine that cold February day caught on film was no exception.  That day we were celebrating my young aunt’s birthday.  Seven years older than I, my aunt is closer in age to me and the other grandkids than to our parents, her brothers and sisters.  Was Jane turning eleven or twelve that day?  I can’t really say.  I’d guess the year as 1959, judging by my own appearance — with hair tied back in a pony tail, wearing that blue coat over a standard home-made dress, I look to be no more than four.

Much like the young girl I was, the camera buzzes around the action without ever landing.  In its greed to capture the big picture for posterity, the action blurs; most subjects are in and out of the frame before eyes can discern their presence.  It doesn’t help that images of vintage film grow faint, that they go gray and grow lines with age.  Was that cousin Mike?  Or Pat?  I can’t really tell.   It all goes too fast.

What I know for sure is that my Aunt Jane had just received a brand new bike for her birthday.  Her first bike, because times and finances were tough for Granny and Granddad.  And for some reason — I don’t know why — my young father was teaching Jane to ride her bike, while my mother captured the event on film.  Who bought the bike for Jane?  Was it my parents?  Was it a joint gift from the family?  I don’t really know — these details were not important to me then.

The rolling images of vintage home movies cannot tell a story alone.  Spliced together without conscious editing, scenes require narration from one who lived through the event.  Preferably the storyteller is one who can recall vivid details since it’s details that make stories come alive.

That’s why it helps to focus in on smaller pictures.  In our story telling, it helps to content ourselves with telling little slices of life in great detail.  Come in late.  Leave early.  Don’t over stay our welcome.

So here’s one smaller picture from that home movie where I hit the pause button:  My young father balancing me on the handlebars of my young aunt’s brand new bike.

The handle bars are cold and hard.  The grass makes for a bumpy ride.  But I don’t care.  I’m happy to take a spin with my father on my aunt’s new bike.   I always found Daddy handsome — it’s a shame he didn’t learn this until lying on his deathbed.   I hope he found the information “better late than never;’  I was just glad to remember to tell it.

But what I didn’t remember were times like this, when Daddy was nothing more that a big playmate.   Surely with a child’s wisdom, I knew this fifty years ago, before Father Time dinged up my memories.

This then, is how I wish to remember Dad: braving the February cold to play the hero, teaching us kids a few new tricks.