Tag Archives: memories

Linger With Your Memories, But Grow In Their Shade

17 Monday Jun 2024

Posted by in Celebrating, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Mondays, fresh with beginnings and business to take care of, still have the aroma of the weekend; often leaving us pondering how quickly endings arrive. Memories are real, but their sun has set and we don’t profit from sitting idly in their shade. I sat last evening going through photographs from the 1980’s and 90’s as requested by my daughter who conveniently forgot to do so before she left. She needed a family vacation picture from her childhood for a work project today. Old pictures are dangerous! Reminiscing can be sweet or sour, and sadly I notice each time I return to the shoeboxes of memories, that our film and camera, not to mention the lousy photography, have left many memories faded, almost non-existent; not too unlike my own ability to remember!

The fair complexion and auburn hair I once disliked, would now be welcome in place of my more aged appearance. Like so many things, it’s best accepted and not grieved. There are too many situations in life that deserve our grief, so I do not recommend creating more.

Throughout my Monday mountain of laundry, my mind was revolving around the past weekend’s activities and today’s anniversary of my mother’s passing. But there was no time to stop and write and now I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Mostly, I guess, it is how we ought not to look back too long, as we aren’t going that way anyhow. Father’s Day and our son’s birthday are so close that we often celebrate both the same weekend, and I was excited about grilling Saturday to celebrate our son, and out to eat Sunday to celebrate my husband. Family time is important, and also important, is to stop and praise God for creating family.

So how did all that pan out? Well, not as I planned; heat that could almost have cooked the steak without the grill smothered me on the porch. Our son had worked all day and fell asleep before he came so we waited…waited…The food was good, I will say, but the best part was the four of us sitting in the sunroom chatting. Then, with all my preparations throughout the day, my feet, back, and shoulders were screaming when I tried to put them to bed.

My husband became ill with upper respiratory symptoms and hardly cared how Saturday went, or even if the food was good. But bless his bones, he was up Sunday morning first, coaxing himself to be ready for worship. The rest of the day was good; daughter arrived back at her home safely by mid-afternoon; son back to his home; and husband and I finally got a much needed nap. How old does that sound? I know. It’s sad. But it’s wonderful too! All were safe. We were together. I recuperated and actually found a nice photo which was useful in our daughter’s project.

Then today, the day fifteen years ago on which my mother passed, found me remembering something wonderful about her too. Though there were characteristics about herself she wanted to change, and though her house was often messy with projects, cooking, canning, kids, whatever, she was there. She was doing life in a way that gave her family everything they needed. No time for looking back, she plowed forward through rain or shine, to make time for us all to be together and grow in one another’s shade. On the day our son was born in 1977, my mother was canning green beans, cooking a large supper for us and my brother and dad who at that time were farming and going through a rough patch. My husband and I had landed there two days before while our house was being readied for us to move into, and wouldn’t you know it – Chad came three weeks early, emergency cesarean section. Suddenly Mama had a family of six living there, and a family of five from West Virginia coming to stay to see the new baby. How do you put eleven people in two full beds, two twin beds, and a bassinet? It worked out because of my selfless beautiful God-loving Mama. And several pallets of quilts on the floor.

I am glad to have grown in the shade of my giant of a Mama. Linger long enough with your memories to be thankful; then grow forward.

Home Sweet Home

19 Sunday Nov 2023

Posted by in Celebrating, Life

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No matter how far or near I travel, even for a few days, I grow more appreciative of home. As I reminisce about a recent trip, and watch our cotton candy sky give way to dusk, I feel there really is no place like home.

I was thinking about the comparisons we make, which can be bad, stealing our joy; or good, increasing our appreciation for things. How was this place compared to that? How is home compared to there? How is our traveling compared to thirty years ago? (!) Having some bit of trouble re-acclimating myself to being home, I kept going outside for fresh air and just to look around and appreciate being home. My head felt “fuzzy” which could have been due to four days of driving the up, down and round and round path from Smokey Mountains to Asheville NC and back. It could as well be from riding with the country boy who found the reins and permission to go home. With ears pinned back and the scent of the stables, this steed was not looking back! I do believe he drove it like a rental!

Our early fiftieth anniversary celebration trip was splendid in many ways, but home cannot be overrated! I brought home touching memories, funny memories, and well, just memories (maybe best left unpacked). But from our front door, we found comfort and beauty like nowhere else. Not because it’s spectacular; no, that was the Biltmore Estate. Not because it is luxuriously accommodating; no, that was the Inn on Biltmore. Simply because it is ours. If there is any comparison to be done, it is only to say, it is better, because it suits us just fine. I found our beautiful Burning Bush hailing from the lawn and Brandywine Maple leaves raining from tree to ground. Our red leaves are no brighter, but no less striking, than those of other areas. But these leaves are here; our leaves. That makes them more appreciated; no prettier, just more appreciated. The drizzle of rain here is nothing spectacular, but so welcome! While in North Carolina, we experienced their severe draught, with disappointment at seeing very little autumn color. Other than a splash here and there of dull yellow, there was a brilliant red oak, common name Scarlet oak. They rather enjoy the dry conditions and were strutting their stuff! Compared to expectations, the lack of color could be a letdown. But compared to the rest of the landscape, those oaks were outstanding! And more appreciated than ever. Otherwise, leaves clung to trees drained of color, and not all the brown fields were due to harvest. A cloud of dust followed a John Deere combine as the soybean crop was being harvested on the Biltmore Estate. Rows of sunflowers surrounding the soybeans hung their big brown faces toward the ground, gasping for a break from heat and dust.

Travel itself can be a larger issue than the destination, so it helps to keep our eyes on the goal. We plan the route and reservations, pack the necessities, and prepare with small GPS screens and chargers, which once was a paper atlas, at least 10 by 14 inches in size. It’s the unknowns that must be dealt with as they arise. Detours; must I say more? To avoid backed up traffic our GPS took us off I65, and onto the ‘scenic’ route. I still feel dizzy just thinking about it. While we slowed down to a new speed limit, there was no stalled traffic and we had opportunity to really see that part of the foothills. On life’s journey, try a detour; even if a forced one. With a different pace you may experience some amazing stuff. Assuredly, if we let God plan the route and we pack according to His instruction, we’ll be prepared for those unknowns – as much as is possible.

Whether the journey goes as planned, or has sudden rounds of ‘what?’, all roads eventually lead home. Our son’s first book he learned to read was called “Home Is Best” which as a toddler, he ‘read’ from memory of hearing it read to him. It began, “East, west, home is best. Sometimes home’s a hanging nest.” It went through many animals and the different kinds of homes they have. Each one is the best. Because it is theirs. Make your home what it needs to be for you and your loved ones’ comfort. Protect it, cherish it, and make it the safe haven from which all can go out and appreciate the world at arms length, and then love coming home.

Likewise, life’s journey has beautiful rewards, as well as its ups and downs. The goal should be getting back home; the eternal home that God has waiting for us. Life can be a fun trip, or the travel may be difficult, but oh, won’t it be great to get home! In Ecclesiastes 12:5, we are reminded, “for man goes to his eternal home, and the mourners go about the streets.” Thinking about the difference age has made in actual road trips, the difficulty of it and adjustments to be made, I realize reluctance to see the vacation end is a thing of the past. We are so ready to get home. Similarly, aging does a miraculous thing about this life thing – we may not cling to it as we did in our youth. The more we roam, the more Heaven is our home.

I try not to get too wrapped up in the trip and keep my eyes on home. Jesus has prepared it (John 14:2), protected it for our homecoming, has forwarded the route details to us in His holy word, and I genuinely believe His presence there will make the trip worthwhile. Trisha

“For we know that if our earthy house, this tent, is destroyed we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” II Corinthians 5:1

ON BIRTHDAYS, MEMORIES AND HEALING

10 Thursday Aug 2023

Posted by in Celebrating

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I missed my Mama and Daddy today. I feel like a child. No-one can love you, be interested in you, like your parents. Though I had about a hundred well wishes, never lonely, lavished with family love, and a sister above all others, I long to hear that phone call. I long to sit down to that birthday dinner. The TLC she put into every morsel, gift and hug are incomparable. And daddy’s genuine interest – in my gardening, the kids, and my husband’s welfare – he always took time to listen to my answers and encouraged conversation.

And then, I can hear my brother so clearly, “Hey, this is ya lil brother. hope you’re having a good birthday. love you.” I miss that too.

Special people go, and leave in their wake a void that can’t, and shouldn’t, be filled. It echos with love and I wouldn’t want to fill that up and take it away for anything.

So… this is healing…to accept the void – where memories drop in and stay to warm your heart.

BIRTHDAY BEAUTY
 I awoke today on my 70th, to the song of bluebirds in the air.
 From my front porch I could see them playing everywhere. 
Through the pink crepe myrtles and Mama's maple tree,
 their flash of azure blue is a special gift to me. 
Pink rosebuds have opened to late summer sun,
 and blue morning glories run a fence just for fun. 
 The biggest blessing is, I can hear and see,
 the bountiful gifts sweet nature has for me.   Trisha

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” James 1:17

Thunder-struck

31 Friday Mar 2023

Posted by in Nature, Reflections

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Being wakened by a clap of thunder and a streak of lightening, before the alarm sounded, was a sweet and salty mixture this morning. Salty as a coarse eye opener, and sweet as the heavy rain lulled me back to a cozy sleep.

When we awoke for real about an hour later, my husband recalled how storms for him, had morphed through his life from a threatening monster into an actual sleep inducer. My thoughts, however, had hopped on a different train. One specific clap of thunder stands out in my mind above all others. It happened on the day of my mother’s passing from this life. And it was no sleep inducer!

A day in June dawned clear and warm, as most others had, with one exception; my mother was gone. Following all the usual information exchange with hospital personnel, we were drawn back to the house I had seen her leave for the last time, several days before. I ran through the front room and hallway into her bedroom crying her name and as I reached her bed, I begged, “Oh God, please let me hear her voice just one more time. Please, let me hear her voice!” As I gained composure and moved into other rooms, I saw that my sister had arrived and we stood together at the glass door, gazing through memories into her sunroom and backyard. A booming thunder came out of nowhere, surprising us so much that we could only stare open-mouthed at each other and feel the hair stand on our necks; thunder-struck! You make what you will of it; but she and I know what we know.

I’ve always believed God answers prayer; otherwise I wouldn’t pray, I suppose. So, two sides to this coin since that day; was the thunder we heard on a clear day with no rain, wind nor clouds, the answer to my prayer? Did we hear from our mother one last time? Or, on the other hand, was God reminding me that He is all I need to hear? “Do not be concerned for your mother, child. She is with me and you need to take care of the life I have given you until you, too, may enjoy the rest she has found.” Actually now that I’ve said it, I realize the two are the same. I absolutely know my mother would want the Father to tell me those exact words, and if it is in His divine plan to allow the departed a request, she would most certainly call out to her children. And If you knew my mother, you know her calling would be thunderous! Her by-word was, no kidding, “thunder!”

I once thought growing older would make me more skeptical, but I am not nearly the skeptic I was in my younger days. This is not the first time God has spoken through nature, and my friends, it won’t be the last either. From the birds who sing their creator’s praise to the seeds erupting with life in springtime, the Lord speaks of His amazing grace and favor.

Some things I know for sure. It was already said in His word, that in Him we will find rest and peace, and the soul never dies. It is also said in scripture that God hears prayer. Also I know one day I will get to hear Christ call my name, as Mary did standing at His empty tomb. And you know, if we get to recognize each other, I’m going to ask, “Mama, you know that clap of thunder, back on June 17, well, …?”

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.” (I John 5:14 NIV)

Then I heard a voice from heaven saying to me, “Write: ‘Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.’ ” “Yes,” says the Spirit, “that they may rest from their labors, and their works follow them.”(Revelation 14:13 NKJV)

















					


	





	

								
Remembering Dr. Cook
										

			30
			Monday
			Jan 2023
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in In Memory		

		

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As paths cross throughout life, some prints make a deeper impact than others, on each of us.  It is likely those who first held our children, made some of those deeper ones. 





The ability to touch hearts comes in many forms, like song writing or painting, but the skill of letting others know they matter, or that they are cared for, may be the most rare form. Eventually we are all going to be known and remembered for something.  





There is much to recall by many, and here are a few of my memories. I will remember red pickup trucks, roses, and babies, and the encouraging statement “you’re doing a much better job of this than I could do!” for mothers-to-be who were in their pushing stage; but one very important quality Dr. Gene Cook had was taking an extra moment for people. Time, a valuable commodity in a physician’s life, can make a world of difference. A moment of thoughtfulness, like a sympathetic phone call, or writing down the name of a hearing aid specialist for an obstinate nurse who blamed his soft voice instead of her aging ears, was kind, but even kinder was his smile at her denial. That’s just one of a hundred things I remember. 





How many reassuring words from Dr. Cook, calmly escorted a patient through her pregnancy? How many supporting affirmations were given to the heart broken families who waited but did not conceive? How many warm hugs and words of ‘well done’ kept a nurse on her tired feet? Never too busy to hear an update or concern for patients’ changes or lack thereof, he was swift to reply, swift to appear. Many unit clerks and nurses’ jobs were made easier by Dr. Cook’s clear orders and perfect handwriting. As the computer age rolled in, so did his efforts to help us merge the old with the new, one way or the other. (Only the nurses will get that last statement.)





While we have struggled these last few days to wrap our heads around the reality of our loss, indeed our community’s loss, we have sobbed with sadness, shaken our heads with disbelief, and remembered with fondness the man Gene Cook, the physician Dr. Charles Eugene Cook, our friend, Doctor Cook.  Each person who was privileged to meet him will have their own memories, and impressions. To be so soft spoken and humble, he sure made an impact. I can see him now, hands clasped and elbows on knees, sitting in a rolling chair at the nurses’ station, and gently turning his head side to side as a denial of any accolades for himself. He would instead, be watching for the “okay” that the surgery crew was ready for him to enter the cold sterile room where he would quickly and adeptly bring a warm screaming life into the world, by way of cesarean section. There was no waiting on him; he was johnny-on-the-spot! Or, he would be donning gown and gloves, having orchestrated long hours of a successful labor and the eventual delivery of one more new life. Whether one who was first touched by Dr. Cook’s capable hands, or the grateful new parent, or a fellow care provider so glad for the intense concern for excellent outcomes, or just a nurse who was thankful Dr. Cook had her back, we can all say thank you; from the heart, thank you Dr. Cook!





Of all my memories, I want to share this one because it speaks to me of Dr. Cook’s attitude in general. It didn’t take long to find we shared the enjoyment of tending roses. He appreciated the beauty of the few nice specimens I took to share at work, and I appreciated his knowledge of rose care and of varieties. He often asked, “How are your roses doing?” When the virus we called ‘witches broom’  struck so many, wiping out entire gardens for some, we lamented our concerns for it. One day after his asking about my roses, I began fussing about a particular bush I had not pruned in the winter and the resulting growth was quite gnarly; poorly blooming and just a mess. He then stopped me by saying, “Never bad-talk your roses”.  Exactly. And Dr. Cook lived by that rule as far as I ever knew. His roses, his people, whatever he cared about may have gotten constructive criticism, but there was no ‘bad-talking’ them. His level of care for his patients was, well, on a scale of one to ten, a twelve. I believe I can speak for others perhaps who worked behind the scenes with him, and beside him, in assuring you he always wanted the best, not just okay, but the best outcome. For everyone. Every time.





My sincere sympathy goes out to the family of Dr. Gene Cook. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

					


	





	

								
Admire the Tinsel – Crave the Ordinary
										

			19
			Monday
			Dec 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in MONDAY MUSINGS, Reflections		

		

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And Mary said: “My soul magnifies the Lord,” 

Luke 1:46 NKJV





What delight I have in the average! The ordinary and mundane sparkle like a long ago memory hanging on the Christmas tree. Call me crazy, but I have always been comforted in a way, by the pauses I take to say to myself, “ok, this or that will turn out alright because I’m average; those rare things don’t happen to average folk”. As naive and unrealistic as it is, it has just been a thing I like to think, all my life. Interestingly, Mary the mother of Jesus, considered her lowly and ordinary existence a reason to praise God for the extraordinary! This post isn’t about Mary, but I dearly love the verse, and surrounding scripture showing us how humbly Mary magnified the Lord for her unique, one time ever, blessed experience. I believe Mary was relieved to find her ordinary self was just what God needed to work His wonder, and she did not feel pressured to be more.





Recently I have found my thoughts circling around the joy of ordinary. It’s a wonder I found my thoughts at all, but that is beside the point. The more abnormal, or out-of-the-ordinary things have become lately, the more I appreciate the mundane normal state of things. Ebb and flow, nice and easy, calm waters; yes, let me live there. I’m thinking we all put our own lives under the microscope occasionally to verify our own ills and isms. There we decide whether we are average or not. We see the tarnished tinsel, the interruptions, the rippled surfaces, but there is always, always, room to say, “wow, it could’ve been so much worse”. Or perhaps not, but I have not been in those rare life-altering situations where I really couldn’t say it. That, to me, is a comfort, and a blessing. Though I have not been so sheltered as to never know tragedy,  as an average person, it was not to be the end of me. 






Grandma Wilkins’ arrangement






Then there are the unusual times when ‘exciting, awesome, or amazing’ descriptors are needed for the days jazzed up with extra helpings of out-of-the-ordinary. Those are our aha moments; our fantastic experiences. We can all use more glitz and glitter – at times. But truthfully, at my age, it is quite tiring to plan and carry out those amazing times. A little bit goes a long way, and then I’m so ready for the usual and mundane. You know why we decorate so early now? It is because the few days of putting up a tree and wreaths and candles and snowmen and Santa Clauses requires a few weeks of recuperation before we can even think of taking it all back down again. I recall when our only Christmas decoration was the tree wrapped in lights, glass balls and silver icicles. It was really doodied up when Mama added an arrangement to the dining room table. Grandma and Grandpa put their little arrangement on the console television cabinet. Though it’s now dusty, dull and dinky, I still have it; a simply beautiful memory.





Surgeries, illness, utility calamities (even our appliances suffered from Covid in 2020-21) and other common, but unexpected bumps in the road are what keep us so incredibly thankful for the days of no incidence; the days of nothing to tell, nothing to sweat, nothing to tug a special plea to God on our own behalf. The best part of those times, is how much more I can focus on praying for all those around me who were not so fortunate as to have a mundane, dull day.





From an average family of five, with average incomes (eventually) and average education and abilities, I found the turbulent times bearable by the thought process I’ve explained above – that since I am average, this is all normal. Christmas would still come because I had an above average mother who made sure it did. Food would still be on the table because I was blessed with parents who had good work ethics. The wheels would roll, the lights would come on and the booboos would heal, regardless of the storms brewing. I’ve grown up now and realize none of that was average. Rather, it was so incredibly blessed that tears form as I think of how to adequately express it. 





This Christmas week I am thinking of all the children who find life so hard and cold that there is no normal, no average, no peaceful thinking. No warm beds, breakfast nor hands to gently wipe their tears. Dear God, take some of my average from my life and use it to soften those little souls.





A few weeks ago the news spoke of a child who had suffered in ways unmentionable, and all I could do was sit and sob for her. I do so now even, realizing hers is not the only case in our world. I do not intend this to be a depressing post, as there are more than enough seeds in the world already for planting heartache and feeling down. I suppose what I do want to relay, is how extremely satisfied we ought to be when we have a most usual, common day.  The gratitude and pleasure well up in me just to be able to look out the window at gifts of red Nandina berries and green wheat sitting dormant through the winter. As much as I want to understand depression and knowing it is very real, it is just beyond my average ability to grasp how one cannot look into God’s beautiful nature – both that of His workmanship and His person – and be lifted out of the darkness into the light of a beautiful ordinary day.










For the past several weeks, especially remembering last December and January,  I have struggled with worrisome thoughts myself, but for every discouraged feeling, there have come more amazing devotionals from God’s word, encouragement from friends and family, gifts of healing and hope for better tomorrows. When you are a child of the King (Lord Jesus); when you have super hero friends and family members; or when you have weeks on end of doing the same thing, seeming to roll one into another, count yourself way above average. It’s okay to tell yourself it’s all average, so you do not live in a bubble of expectation, thus the ups and downs do not burst your bubble; but never forget how special it is, and to be on-your-knees-thankful for the ordinary.







 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” 

James 1:17 NKJV





Have a blessed, ordinary, Merry Christmas! Love, Trisha

					


	





	

								
The Boston Bully (Number 6 in Ocean View)
										

			07
			Monday
			Nov 2022
		

	
	

		

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“Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.”  (Proverbs 16:32)





How do you describe a single frantic moment or incident, where four individual forces are blended as one spinning top with two layers, each going opposite directions at once? A cyclone, a tornado? On our second day of Seaside living, my dog Auggie and I called one such moment the ‘Boston Bully’.  Minding our own business as we took a doggy walk, we were taken by surprise along the sandy fenced walkway, where small garden gates gave access to the walk from each home’s lawn or porch. Suddenly, through one gate, as if thrown from a whirlwind, a black and white cyclone was out of the gate, yapping and chasing Auggie, evading his master’s “Max, Max, Max! Come back! Max!” The Boston terrier was all chase and no heeding the call; out. of. control! 





Auggie wonders, “Which way home?“





At the same time, Auggie’s fight or flight kicked in and it was all flight, no fight, with Auggie running counter clockwise around me and my clockwise attempt to intercept, impeded by leash and the outer circle of Max and his master’s continual circling, which boosted Auggie’s speed to avoid being devoured. After I finally grasped my part of the spinning top, Max was snatched up by his equally surprised owner. In those few seconds, it was easy to identify two separate personalities. Though about the same size, one was bossy, aggressive and out of control; the other was meek and under control, albeit by harness and leash more than his own. I imagine Max was accustomed to bullying, or taking charge outside his master’s reach. Auggie, on the other hand was anchored, under the control of his master, in reach of safety. With nothing to prove to this wild one, Auggie’s aim was to get out of his way. As soon as he saw his master’s out-reached hands, he leapt into my arms. Meekness, they say, equals strength under control; peace seeking; the desire to do (and receive) no harm. Auggie displayed no snarling, barking, nor attitude; just “get me outta here”.





I laugh now remembering the embarrassed (if not somewhat fearful) manner of apology from the Boston bully’s owner. Scooping up his little sidekick, he kept repeating, “I’m sorry…sorry…sorry…” and with a sudden effort to see the whole situation vanish, he confidently finished, “HE’S SORRY!” The cyclone over, I could only stand with mouth gaped,  no sound coming forth. I wish I could’ve said something smart, or kind, but I was literally speechless; and winded. We gratefully resumed our walk and never saw the little bully again; somehow I think we made his day. 





When encountered by the world’s unleashed whirlwinds, or chased by a cyclone of fear, God promises to stand firm, an unmovable anchor for our soul. He says to be patient; to exercise self-control, and He will make the way of escape. (I Corinthians 10:13,  Hebrews 6:18-19)





My next “Ocean View” will be Sunset Goodbyes. It may take more than a week because I am still learning to navigate my own emotions through some of life’s goodbyes. Then again, it may be a short and sweet goodbye to the “Ocean View” series. I hope you have enjoyed the reminiscing as well as seeing, as I do, the reminders of His character our Creator placed in nature. Until then, have a beautiful week. Trisha

					


	





	

								
Dear Mama
										

			16
			Friday
			Sep 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Family, Poetry		

		

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“Strength and honor are her clothing; she shall rejoice in time to come. …Her children rise up and call her blessed;”  Proverbs 31:25, 28a NKJV





September 16 is a nice time of year; nicer because it’s the birthday of my mother. Now, my sister always made Mama proud, and pleased her in so many meaningful ways. Our little brother had his own unique way of being dear to her heart. But for some mother-ish reason, Mama liked my words, written. So, all I’ve ever done that seemed to me, to honor her was write, for her, on her special day. Somehow it does seem better than the scorched toast and dry scrambled eggs with a bud vase holding a chigger weed or clover bloom, which in my youth I’d be serving for her today, on a tray. I can imagine the mess she had to clean up after I got it done. I share the words in her honor, and because she would want me to.





Dear Mama





If Mamas could sell every tear they cried





And if they were paid for how hard they tried;





If happiness really, could be bought





And children learned every lesson Mom taught;





There’s no end to how happy and smart I’d be,





Because you’d have bought them just for me!





You’d have spent the tear treasures on everyone else,





And, perhaps, some SAS shoes for yourself!





For your big loving heart would always know





Where needs were calling, and your sore feet would go. 





You would be 91 today and I am celebrating your life; recalling the beauty of your heart in spite of the pain. Thanking God with a smile on my face for His grace in letting me be yours. 










A grateful daughter, Trisha                                    9/16/22

					


	





	

								
Daddy’s Little Ice Cream Buckets: My final “Daddy Story”
										

			20
			Saturday
			Aug 2022
		

	
	

		

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As Daddy felt his time slowly pulling into the station, he asked me to start writing down his memories and we called them our “Daddy Stories”. I did write, and had printed into a booklet for him, 15 stories most of which were his. This was after his sight had failed but in time for him to hear someone else read back his memories to him and I suppose, to feel like he would not be forgotten. The following I write today, to add to the end of my Daddy Stories, as I watch another garden season ride by.





Near the end of August the garden, like our own aging, grows old, mature, less productive in some ways, more so in others. There is for me, the temptation to begin clearing the disorganized rows again as the picking and canning slows, but the garden itself is still teeming with life. About this time I also shake my head and wonder how those little seeds and sprouts in so short a time, became all this wilderness of blooms among crowded lanes of overgrown vines; and how grass and weeds appear overnight. I love how the drooping sunflower heads draw a crowd of goldfinches and intricately designed butterflies flutter throughout the zinnia, okra and purple hull pea blossoms. This is also a time of reflection; on the ones who planted, picked and preserved gardens before me, teaching me the joy of the process. I wonder how many times I’ll get to do it all over again, and I’m glad I do not know.










For the last couple decades of my daddy’s life we had made amends and grown closer. In my memory that nearness began to grow out of our shared interest in gardening. Sometimes on sunny afternoons, I would drive the half hour or so to his farm to watch his hummingbirds and admire his garden. As life goes, he eventually grew too old to do the work himself and he and his wife, Ms. Wanda, moved to our town of Murray, Kentucky. Here, he was able to drive out often to see my gardens, give his much needed advice, and take an occasional basket of beans or peas home to break and shell for me. When I returned the visits to pick up the readied beans or peas, he had them packed into round plastic gallon pails he called his ‘little ice cream buckets”. He would say, “now don’t even think about returning that little bucket; I’ve got a dozen of ‘em”.  But I would bring them back filled with okra, hot peppers and tomatoes for their enjoyment, and get to hear another “Daddy Story”. Over the years, I did keep a few (a smarter person would have kept many) of the pails with lids, which proved to be just about the most useful thing you can own, next to a pocket knife.





I do not truly believe there is a lot of difference in taste from one vanilla ice cream to another. As long as it’s not one of those ‘low carb’ or ‘no sugar added’ or some such concoction pretending to be good ice cream, they’re all pretty much the same to me. But daddy always, and I mean always, bought the “Dippin’ Kind” or, if that wasn’t available, Prairie Farms, which interestingly enough, also had to be in a round plastic pail. Once during the Covid isolation I called from Kroger reporting I could not find a plastic pail of vanilla ice cream, so was there another brand I could bring, to which he said, “No, I think they’ll have it over here at Food Giant”. Daddy did not have a particularly scrutinizing taste, but he did grow up in a time when everything that could possibly be reused, did. I am 100 percent sure he bought the Dippin’ Kind strictly for the plastic pail. There’s no telling how many uses we have found for those little buckets. 





I am down to only one of his little ice cream buckets with a lid, because  I’ve “used the far out of ‘em” as he’d say. As I washed it today, I was overtaken by emotion in thinking of the end of good things; like multipurpose little plastic pails, old men with softened hearts that want to be forgiven, and time…time for hugs and forgiveness. 





We learn as we go; it is the only way. While my amazing mother instilled in me the love for growing flowers and the satisfaction of a pantry lined with gleaming jars of canned tomatoes, beans, pickles, jellies and relishes, it was daddy’s love of growing and tending the garden, which I seem to have inherited as well. From them both, however, I learned to put the past behind, to fill my pails with love, close the lid on bad memories and plant the good ones; to be at peace. 





As long as God thinks I need to, and daddy’s little plastic bucket lasts, I’ll keep wagging it and my grandpa’s half-bushel basket to the garden to watch in amazement the whole God-inspired process of decaying seeds becoming fabulous food.  I’ll keep picking pails of peppers and okra, cucumbers and tomatoes, and pouring up shelled peas to keep for freezing and dropping broken green beans into it to guesstimate a full canner. 





Satan plants weeds from bad memories in effort to tarnish and destroy and make us bitter. I’m going to keep carrying those in my little plastic bucket straight to the garbage; then wash and rinse the bucket to hold the good scraps I take to the compost can, where they will eventually give rise to new generations of beauty. 





Life can leave you buckets of blessings and pails of problems for which we each will decide a purpose, and whether or not to make good use of them. I’ve filled my buckets hundreds of times over with useful as well as useless stuff; soapy water and a good scrap of terrycloth towel, cut flowers, fishing worms, good veggies and bad veggies, canning lids and rings, and packets of seed in the freezer to plant another year; scraps of iron and chain and rocks I‘ll never use; popcorn, pecans and grilling supplies; and I’m sure that doesn’t even get near the number of uses Daddy found for his ice cream buckets. I treasure the ‘late summer garden’ time of his life when he was less productive in some things and more so in others, with stories to tell, and little ice cream buckets of wisdom and love to share with his children.





“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted.” Ecclesiastes 3:1-2