Remembrances and new life

I'm on Camp Lejeune, North Carolina awaiting the arrival of a granddaughter.  This place always brings back so many memories- I spent six years here as a young military wife.  I had three babies here; we bought our first home and made friends for life.

And I found out that Christians are not divinely protected from tragedy.

My husband was a helicopter pilot and we buried some fine young men.  And thirty years ago, a dear friend from our small group died in Beirut, Lebanon.  On October 23, 1983, two hundred and forty one service Marines, sailors and soldiers died when a vehicle bomb exploded in their four story barracks. It was early in the morning when many were still asleep.  The bomber knew their schedules, his truck was familiar.  One source said the result was the largest non-nuclear explosion since World War II. http://shar.es/EYxYs

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beirut_Memorial

But for our little group in Jacksonville, it was personal.  And for me, it has become a small glimpse of God's grace, a strange lesson but it's what I have carried with me.  On October 16, a week before the many deaths from the truck bomb, our dear friend died in Beirut. He was a good man who went with a peacekeeping force and was shot by a random sniper. He left a toddler and a young pregnant wife in North Carolina and went to serve his country.  Ben was born after his dad left and was four months old when his dad died.  Everyone from President Ronal Reagan to the Good Morning America crew to the wives in the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit called or visited his widow and marveled at her quiet faith, her sweetness in the light of her tragedy.

All military wives wonder, "What would be my reaction if....?"  And within that same week, many of the military wives who paid respects to her were widowed themselves.  But they had just seen the compassion of Jesus surrounding and pouring out from one of their own. Only God knows ripples from the faith she modeled.

The years have gone on, our lives have marched forward but our friend's widow did not have a "happily ever after."  She struggled with her children, the guilt of new wealth, poor financial advisors, health issues, all compounded by grief and loneliness.   Perhaps that was the tragedy that touched me the most- I didn't witness many widows live out the rest of their lives but this one was not the picture of a divine bubble of protection.  The evil of the world still reached out and touched a vulnerable life.  Life proved not fair.  Young men die in war, middle age men die from disease.  But while life isn't fair and will never the same, life can be good.

Tomorrow on the 30th anniversary of Mike's death, my granddaughter, Noelle Kathryn, will be born. Ironically she will come into this world on the very same military base that sent those young men to keep peace and pay with their lives.   Mike never knew his son. My husband never knew his son-in-law or his grandchildren. He will not know this sweet baby girl.  It doesn't seem fair.  But as all widows know - life goes on and you have the choice to join in and live again.   God does not override the evil of this world to keep His people in bubble wrap.  But He does continue to give good gifts.

One good gift is memory. My son in law joined several hundred others and ran the annual Beirut Memorial 10K last Saturday. Marines remember the day in October when a coward in a truck blew up their own.  Mike's family and friends remember him. I remember the community life we shared and the love he had for his young family.  I remember the grace his widow showed in her darkest hour.

So on this overcast, dreary evening in coastal Carolina, I am grateful.  Grateful for the memories of my season of young motherhood and for old friends, however brief some of those relationships were.  I'm grateful for the joy of grandchildren, however bittersweet it is to ponder how much Bill would have loved these little peanuts.   And I'm grateful that I've learned God's heart toward me is always good. This world is but a brief sojourn before the better stuff that comes next.

My wild-child grandson leaps off practically everything and just before he launches, he jabbers, "One, two, free...!" Yes, it takes a careful ear to understand his words.  But if we listen carefully, we too will someday hear the joyful welcome- and we can jump into the place where we will understand everything.


Meanwhile, there's a new life to welcome.

A flood, a bird, an epiphany?

It all started when the Colorado downpours saturated the ground and created a moat around my sister’s window well and then breached the “dam”.  As those things fill up with water, the windows have no chance. Water rushed in.

That was three weeks ago while I was there for a couple of days.  While my brother-in-law and I tried to keep the craziness to a minimum, furniture was moved and stuff shuffled around or more honestly, tossed aside. My sister works more hours than I knew were available in a week so the basement was already typical, American storage space and well, disorder. It was the classic- “One of those days I’m going to tackle the basement”.  Frankly, after the mini-flood the basement became complete chaos. One easy solution was to just close the basement door and think about it later.  Until the cat brought in a bird and proceeded to chase it around in said basement before dining on parts and leaving a carcass and lots of feathers.   The basement moved up the list of weekend chores.

The prospect of facing the clutter and the tossed aside furniture was too much. But life has a way of forcing us to confront our stuff- the exterior clutter and the interior confusion, as well.  So the last weekend I visited. my sister and I had a lovely bike ride planned but the furnace blew a thingy and poured smoke into the house and obviously needing tending.  Her husband, lovely man that he is, doesn’t do household crisis/repairs well on his own.  He’s a great cook and does his own laundry so that's a good tradeoff. Plus Janet knew an old acquaintance with a HVAC handy husband. “Sure, we’ll come by and look at it after the boy’s football game. Be great to see you. Etc.”

Hurrah!  Problem’s not solved but we’re no longer in the literal smokey haze of broken furnace with winter coming on.  But of course, the furnace.... is in the basement.

Long story short (too late, you say....)- we hauled a pile out of the basement. Several piles. All the office catalogs from a previous job, some rain soaked fiberboard, lots of paper work, knick-knacks earmarked to go to Goodwill that had snuck into the basement when her back was turned. And it’s always easier to really sort and pitch with a kind friend.  Or a bossy, older sister.  “Seriously, why do you have a catalog from 2009?”

So we arranged furniture, planned for a painting project and generally patted ourselves on the back. The next morning, after church and a nice big breakfast, I was reading the Sunday paper and came across Howard Mansfield’s article, “An American Dilemma: Your Clutter or Your Life.”

“It’s now 'physically possible that every American could stand — all at the same time — under the total canopy of self-storage roofing,” boasts the Self Storage Association. There are about 51,000 storage facilities in the country — more than four times the number of McDonald’s.   The storage shed is a symptom of our cluttered lives.  Clutter is the cholesterol of the home, it's clogging the hearth."

                                                                                               From The Denver Post / Oct 4, 2013

He goes on to make great observations on the toll that clutter takes on our lives, our peace of mind, our family time, our living time.  “Clutter is choking our shelters. Is there any room left for us in our houses?”

We agreed. We want to live simple. We want to have less, haul stuff away, give it away.  Janet said for every thing she brought into the house, a similar item had to leave. And we had really made a dent in the basement and had several boxes to  donate. We looked at each other and with one breathe we both exclaimed, “We should do a Goodwill run!”  We are incorrigible.  But off we went to search for pillows for the new basement plan and any other absolute treasures we "need". 

But on the way, we found a large bill board advertising a new business venture for her town, which is just south of metro Denver. 

“Occupying roughly 20 acres, Vehicle Vault will include twelve storage “condos” for collectors of high-end automobiles. They will have the ability to maintain and display their prized collections in a country club-like atmosphere, and have access to concierge services, waterless car washes and transportation for vehicles that can’t be driven.”

Yes, you read that right. Not only can all of America stand under the roof area of the millions of storage units where we store stuff we can’t fit into our houses, now you can buy a condo to store your car.  Now granted, these are high-end collectible cars. Not like Beanie Babies that failed to return on their promised investment value but real assets. Like you have in a bank. Or in a vault.  For cars

“Village at Vehicle Vault. Built to provide the elite car collector a place to keep and maintain their investments and share their passion with a like-minded community of car enthusiasts.”    http://www.vehiclevaultco.com/

We decided it was a high-class storage unit, the kind you could proudly open the doors and share with fellow hoarders, I mean enthusiasts.   We laughed, took pictures and proceeded to not just one but two Goodwills where we scored fabric for pillows and a pair of absolutely necessary black capris.  And a cute pair of  brand new shoes. Don't judge. 

So... not sure the moral, the lesson, even the point of all this.  It just felt very ironic to be motivated to go shopping after we emptied a space that had been full of clutter.  And driving by the construction site for yet another storage facility/ museum struck me as the height of irony in a culture that even has a word for simplicity. 

Either way the bird feathers are gone, the basement's cleaned, the furnace is being pondered and we had an epiphany.  I just forgot what it was. Maybe my mind’s a bit cluttered. 

Grant Wood's America

As a little girl in Alaska I wasn't exactly exposed to fine art. I don't even remember an art museum. My dad was faithful to take us to the latest Warren Miller ski movie each year.  http://www.skinet.com/warrenmiller/
His true art appreciation phase was later in his life, after he retired from milking cows twice a day.

But one image I vividly remember is a Grant Wood print at our friend's house. The wife was a consummate homemaker.  All the Alaskan women seemed to excel at something and Betty was the one who grew humongous begonias, made all her own clothes from complicated, elegant Vogue patterns and decorated her house with midcentury modern furniture.  Well, it wasn't all that many years past the midcentury but it was sleek and chic compared to our dairy farm utilitarian decor.  My mother, God bless her, only had a school teacher's brief summer to fuss with her home decor.

When our families gathered for dinners or holidays at Betty's home,  I would stand and gaze at her small German windup music box. The box was just the base for a tiny scene- children and tiny clothes on lines and bunches of flowers. Sweet and romantic and delicate. These images and faint tinkle of mechanical music still tickle my memory and  again I am a small child, gazing the eye level at the tiny scene.  And above the long, low cabinet where the music boxes lived, was a Grant Wood print. Rolling hills of greens and yellows.  Rows of perfectly planted corn.  Peace, order, harmony.

"Young Corn"
http://bjws.blogspot.com/2012/10/1930s-americas-great-depression_12.html

http://www.grantwoodartgallery.org/grantwood.htm


Grant Wood's America is not real life, nor was it then.  He is more known for his iconic "American Gothic"

"American Gothic"

but his image of idyllic rural life touched something deep in me.  Perhaps the rough, not quite finished atmosphere of Alaska gave me a longing for the apparent permanence of a Midwest townscape.  My front yard faced the same looming mountains that Betty's did.  But her house reflected orderly, Midwestern roots and that contrast must have spoken something to my young soul.


So this week as I drove across the rolling hills of the Midwest, I was back in a Grant Wood painting. The light was terrible and the trees were only hinting of their fall colors but the same impression was there.  Fresh cut edges of stubble outlined the even lines of golden corn. Crops smoothly moved over the rounded hills.  Apple orchards had produce stands and I munched on a carmel apple of a variety I've never heard of.  Amish buggies occasionally shared the road with cars and trucks.  Farmsteads were tidy and a variety of barns begged to be photographed.

In my South Dakota life I see barns that tell the tales of failed attempts to conquer the land. Empty house slant into the wind, black windows are sightless eyes staring without life.  Spent and conquered, the farm will eventually crumble into the wildness of prairie.

But here in Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin, man has won over the land. Or at least here are scenes of cooperation and productivity, established patterns of crops, orchards and gardens.  Like a Grant Wood painting.

All that musing as I drove came from a print from my childhood. It was a small journey back into a formative memory.  And I wondered- what children who come to my house see? Are there images in my home that will spark a lifelong  longing for beauty or order or the Creator?  I love to create a visual feast for just my eyes to enjoy but this trip across an image of my childhood reminded me- you never know what visual memory you are creating for others. Especially the children of your world. It's not the same as a tour of a fine art museum.... or perhaps it is.

Beauty will save the world.  What's my part in creating that beauty? Not just for my own soul, but for the other people, large and small. who share my world.

Attachment

My son and his lovely wife are great people committed to God, to each other and now parents to a beautiful baby girl.  They are thoughtful people and have arranged their schedules so they can be home with Mariam most of the time, especially Lindsay.  Breast-feeding is going well and they have found themselves in the "attachment parenting" camp. Mariam relies on nursing and a bit of movement during the day to settle down for sleep.  It works great for them. Mariam is a delightful little person- happy, curious, healthy. 

"The long-range vision of Attachment Parenting is to raise children who will become adults with a highly developed capacity for empathy and connection.  The essence of Attachment Parenting is about forming and nurturing strong connections between parents and their children."   http://www.attachmentparenting.org/

All good things.

Until this grandmother arrives for a visit and tries to put Mariam to sleep.  Even at nine months and cocooned into the familiar stroller, she KNOWS it is not her mama pushing the other end.  She KNOWS it is not her papa crooning hymns into her ear.  She doesn't really know this stranger they call Bebe.  

While they seem fine with her and the Bebe person plops on the floor and plays with her..... Mariam just wants what is familiar, what she is attached to.  Or more to the point, who she is attached to. 

Finally asleep!
Never move a sleeping baby.... add fan and leave her on the cool back patio. 

Not sure who you are.....

But I'm a happy girl so I'll smile! 

And you can give me food but I'm still not sure about you....

          at•tach•ment (əˈtætʃ mənt)

n.

1. the act of attaching or the state of being attached.

2. a feeling that binds one to a person, thing, cause, ideal, or the like; devotion; regard.

3. something that attaches; a fastening or tie.

          Origin: 

1300–50; Middle English atachen  < Anglo French atacher  to seize, 
Old French atachier  to fasten, alteration of estachier  to fasten with or to stake, equivalent to estach (Germanic *stakka stake) + -ier infinitive suffix

Mariam is attached to her parents. They have set a stake so to speak, and provided her an anchor, a reference point, a bond.  It is as it should be, even if it makes Bebe feel a little left out of their inner circle.  I want to be a person that she trusts but I haven't seen her that much, she's still very young and I expected her to be a bit hesitant.  All natural things in the life of a baby. 

Ahh.... these are the arms I wanted. 

But what does my experience say about the other world we also inhabit? The natural world points to and informs our understanding of the spiritual world, the reality that will outlast both time and material. Therefore, in the world of our spirit and soul we also form attachments, enjoy the familiar and fasten ourselves to things and people.  

As Christians, we believe that God put down a stake, a cross, to be precise, and we can bond to that truth, that anchor and form healthy attachments to the God who loves us, who has a good heart toward us, who wants our best.  Much like Mariam's earthly parents, God watches over his children and longs for them to know Him and love Him in return. 

So-  do we look up with eagerness when we hear His voice? Do our lives reflect the inner circle of love and grace where we have been invited to dwell?  Do my attachments  cause a holy hunger in others?   For remember, our membership in faith is not exclusive. We are not trying to create the necessary earthly bonds for a healthy parent-child relationship.  The very Creator of family, of community has already created the safe place for us. We just enter into His family and then, turn back at the door and declare, "Come in with us! You belong as well."

 So much to learn from the small wonders God has given to us in this world. 

Sleep well, Mariam Charis.

Welcome to the family! 

Water.... and people in their places

I went from water-inundated northern Colorado to “always-rainy” Seattle.  It’s amazing the difference when water falls from the sky at a slow, steady rate.  In Colorado, I bypassed my flooded destination of Fort Collins to insure my eventual arrival in Denver an hours south and, more importantly, my flight out of Denver.   In Seattle, I enjoyed sunshine; it’s always lovely when I go there. If it weren’t for all the obvious green, including moss on rocks and roofs, I’d think someone was making up all the it-always-rains-in-Seattle stories.

So I enjoyed water in its proper place and my son, also in his proper place.  He expertly directed me through city streets, introduced me to favorite restaurants and knew just when to turn the street corner to arrive at a favorite thrift shop.  He’s in his place, his element and creating a life there.  Perhaps not the life I’d like to see him creating- he’s supposed to be in college, making long term goals and perhaps, racking up loan debt.  Instead he works nights, sleep days and lives well on less money than I’d thought possible.  And he’s happy. 

He has a community that he trusts and enjoys.  Like sunlight bouncing on the water in Union Bay, he's reflecting the security he’s experiencing in this place. 

The end of the floating bridge in the background.

We walked nature trails on bridges over the water, feeling the concrete segments moved subtlety under our feet.  Walking on water, enjoying peace in the quiet place under the overpass and the rush hour madness above us.

Another day we took a ferry to the Olympic Peninsula to explore small towns and their lavender fields, long past the purple prime of July.  We saw salmon running in the Dungeness River- not quite the thick squirm of pinks and reds I remember from my Alaskan childhood but still amazed that those big fish thrash upstream so far from the sea.

Arriving in Kinsgon harbor.  

We could hang out here a long time! 

Still on the peninsula, we headed west to the rainforest. The Marymere waterfall was an easy hike and the way rich in green abundance.  


The hush quieted our souls and we spoke of the creation and the Creator.

The sheer size of the trees was overwhelming and we wondered, do the trees know we are there, in their place?  Studies show other plants respond to gardeners.  What if the trees are somehow aware, even responsive?




                                                                     These sacred natural places can invoke thoughtful hikes.

At the end of the trail,  water dropped a hundred feet, falling from above us into its stream bed

far

Marymere Falls

below.

Again, water in its place.  Not controlled by man but certainly within its natural boundaries.  Comforting, calming.  Not the destruction of chaos, instead  the beauty of creation.

God, my God, how great you are!

    beautifully, gloriously robed,
Dressed up in sunshine,
    and all heaven stretched out for your tent.
You built your palace on the ocean deeps,
    made a chariot out of clouds and took off on wind-wings.
You commandeered winds as messengers,
    appointed fire and flame as ambassadors.
You set earth on a firm foundation
    so that nothing can shake it, ever.
You blanketed earth with ocean,
    covered the mountains with deep waters;
Then you roared and the water ran away—
    your thunder crash put it to flight.

Mountains pushed up, valleys spread out
    in the places you assigned them.
You set boundaries between earth and sea;
never again will earth be flooded.

You started the springs and rivers,
sent them flowing among the hills.         Psalm 104

My time in Seattle is over.  I’m off to visit another son, a beloved daughter-in-law and, of course, the most adorable granddaughter in Texas.   For all four of my children, the rivulets of their childhoods are broadening into the wider streams of adulthood.  I’m just grateful to be able to float along with each of them from time to time - at their pace, in their places.  Like water flowing in its ordered place.

Paring down, traveling light,.....whatever

I’m flew to Seattle today and my carefully packed carry-on went in the plane’s hold, checked at the gate.  I tried and could lift it over my head so I could have wrestled that thing into an overhead bin but why push the limits of my upper body strength.

Arrived!

And this week, going from Denver to  Seattle-
I took two umbrellas!

(Well, one was packed, one snuck in- that was the extra weight)

I had packed carefully- with three flights in a two-week trip I was determined not to pay an extra hundred dollars just to have more choices of clothes.  Of course, this trip includes cool, rainy Seattle and warm, practically-summer Waco, Texas.  So it took some creative clothing selection. Only two pairs of shoes, lots of layers and my sincere hope that my hosts will have down jackets or extra T-shirts if I’m desperate.

I was pretty content with my packing job until my sister opened her birthday package of raw coffee beans and insisted I add the cute burlap coffee bag from Panama to my stuffed carry-on.  A big burlap bag.  “Paul will love it. You need to take it to Seattle for him. Besides, I have enough stuff already.”

Don’t we all?  Have enough stuff...

When I moved West I shredded or tossed about a quarter of my possessions and gave away about another third.  It was hard but exhilarating, too.  I kept sorting and chucking, keeping only the essentials or things I really loved. I was going to travel light, live pared down, embrace simplicity in this new season of my life.

“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” 
― Confucius

Well, it’s been two years and I still haven’t unpacked all the boxes.

Why is it so hard to keep life simple?  I made good choices, I was generous with others as I gave my stuff away, I was sure I needed all that I kept.  But the fact is, I also filled in the gaps once I moved. I have a borderline-obsession/love of thrift stores.  “How could someone get rid of that? I need it.”  Sure the ten-dollar down comforters were a great idea and an amazing deal. But the collection of globes I’m accumulating?  Those I just wanted.  And I obviously wanted them more than I want simplicity.

But my wandering off the path of simplicity isn’t so obvious to me when I do it.  I have room for guests so that means towels, bedding, children’s toys,  heavy jackets for cool summer nights, hiking shoes in various sizes – just in case.  I have a fully equipped kitchen- for guests and I do eat. But I also have art supplies because I really want to get back to my art one of these days, when I have more time.  I have more books than I’ll ever read but they are good books and maybe the children will want them some day.  I heard that you can learn a lot about a person from their library and that the digital age could end the idea of a personal library heritage.  I want to leave a heritage of books. And art. And the stuff that says, "This is me." Or someday, "This was my mother, this was your Bebe, or your Gran-Bebe."

Ready for fun....
and almost organized. 

Ready for art-
looks MUCH cooler now that those drawers are hung on the wall. 

This is BEFORE we added  several more bookshelves and many more books.....

But I also want to live simple.

Maybe simple is less about stuff and more about my attitude about the stuff.  I love having guests and I appreciate being able to anticipate their needs so my home can be their haven.  I want to know when I’m ready to create; I’ll have the supplies to use.  I just can't seem to get rid of books but I'll sort again for next Friends of the Library book sale. Meanwhile, my guests are quite entertained by the library. So it's not exactly simple living but it's working out. 

United Airlines was more than willing to gate check my carry-on freeing me to stroll unencumbered through the airport.  Grabbing a verse completely out of context, Jesus said "My burden is light, my yoke is easy."  I don’t have to carry around the burden of my stuff and I certainly don’t have to hold it over my own head. I can look around at what God is doing and join Him- like being hospitable and creative. I can choose carefully what I need for each leg of the journey. I can trust others will share when I have need.  I can soak in the comfort and memories of the pieces I keep. 

Turns out the road to simplicity is a bit more complicated than I thought.  Kinda like life. 

“A child of five could understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five.” 
― Groucho Marx

Making hay while the sun shines....

I came West to avoid traffic, competition and the suburban obsession with green turf lawns.  Well, not quite but those are three things I do not miss.  I hated the grass part of yard work.  I know planting beds are more work, the plants mature and take over and have to be tended or replaced, etc. Grass is "easy"- except it takes timing and chemicals and watering and well, some kind of system I never figured out and never cared about. Heck, we spent a good part of one beautiful fall on our hands and knees plugging zoysia grass only to discover it crept into the beds and turned dead brown in the fall.  It would have been fun to have a sumptuous green patch to walk on barefoot or toss bocci balls on or to have some insane bragging rights but it was not to be.   So I mowed the weeds of my suburban lawn and swore I'd move somewhere without a lawn. 

 A place with no grass, like the Wild West of South Dakota. Only God put me down in a lovely log home... on the edge of the prairie. For those of you not from prairie country, prairie is made of.... grass. Lots of long and short grass.   And South Dakota has had a spectacular season for... grass. 

It has rained all summer and we've had the most wonderful wild flowers. This would have also been the perfect year to plant trees -who knew.  The valleys are lush and green. The farmers are making hay. The horses and cattle are fat and sleek.  Everyone's happy. 

Hay bales in the neighbor's far pasture

And I have grass. Lots of grass.  

Love my grasses! 

A couple of months ago my neighbor charged up on the local vehicle of choice- a dusty all-terrain vehicle, and bellowed, "When are you gonna cut that grass?"  Add all the colorful expletives you can imagine and that's my neighbor, Wild Bill.  It isn't lost on me that my husband's nickname in college was Wild Bill, but compared to this man, he was a very introverted (and clean-mouthed) wild man.  But my current Wild Bill is a good neighbor and laughed when I indignantly informed him I had moved west to avoid grass cutting. 


Well, this year with all the rain, the grass grew and grew and now it's a fire hazard.  Firemen here only defend houses that are defensible. No trees brushing the roof, no piles of firewood on the porch- oops and certainly, no three foot sea of dry grass around the house. 



So I started up my sturdy, little second-hand tractor and made hay.

 I hit a few rocks- don't tell my brother, we share the tractor and he already thinks I've a few bolts loose.  I did buy new blades.... we're going to need them.

Rocks hiding in tall grass...

I cut a path and tried to avoid rocks! 

I pulled out rocks- this is clearly land that does NOT want to be cut into lawn ....

And I mowed grass.....over and over  in small bites since my tractor is really a LAWN tractor, not a FIELD tractor. 

This is HAY!

These are the rocks I removed and tossed out of the grass. 

These rocks?
I'll mow around them.

And as I bumped along with my lousy attitude, eyes on the ground looking for rocks, I slowly relaxed. That amazing, just cut grass smell mingled with the older scent of cut hay.  My grass is drying and the pungent green of lawn clippings gave way to the warm fragrance of golden brome grass.  I grew up on a farm. The autumns of my childhood smelled of hay cut and drying in windrows for baling.   My dad fed hay and silage to the cows and there was plenty of fields to mow before it snowed. But even in the flurry of harvest, he cut carefully around the pheasant nests- not for hunting but just to share the land with them.


So today, I made my own hay but for a sweet moment, I was a little girl back in Alaska on my dad's lap, steering his big red International Harvester tractor.

As I rode, I thought of my dad and the hours he spent cutting, raking, baling- harvesting hay. I turned the corners and the cut grass blew around me and littered my hair green and brown. My arms prickled with the dry chaff.  My hands gripped the steering wheel and buzzed from the tractor's motor. The sweat dripped down my back under the hot afternoon sun. I breathed deep the familiar scents and missed my dad. I wanted him here to tell me I was doing a good job, to tell me to watch out for that rock ahead.


But all I have are the memories of him- the memories of a outstanding farmer, a good man and my loving father.  And under the bright blue western sky making hay on my little red tractor,  it was enough.

More grass to mow....
another day.

http://www.livinghistoryfarm.org/index.html