My daddy did not take summer vacations, Neither did our family. He was a hard working man. Going to visit relations however, was an altogether right thing to do.
I was twelve when our family, packed arm-to-arm in our blue and cream ‘54 Desoto, traveled back mountain roads. looking for Daddy’s home place. He was a jokester, a trickster, a ghostly storyteller who never stopped working.
The closer we got to Great Aunt Libby’s place the more carefree he became. Suddenly our car veered to the shoulder of a narrow country road.
Late July corn grew high on both sides of the hot pavement, fields with tall tassled stalks as far as I could see, ”Just look, here” he said. ”Fresh corn for the pickin’. Nobody is going to miss a few of these good-looking ears.”
Two steps into carefully planted rows, a man appears with a shotgun. Daddy, all smiles and grins, his firm hand extended for a neighborly shake, says “Well hi there. I am out looking at these fields of corn, mighty tempting for tonight’s dinner. Would you sell us a bushel?”
Daddy stood so proud, tossing ears of corn into the trunk of the car. Still grinning. Did I tell you Daddy was a salesman? He liked a good deal.
Green leaves wrapped around tawny husks, waiting to be shucked. Most days are so ordinary. Shedding the outside wrapping, fingering strands of silken threads, I pull dreams from rows of juicy kernels, savoring sweet tasting memories of a golden summer day.
She asked if I had an accomplished childhood. I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, play hop scotch, scout out a game of sandlot baseball, climb a tree, build a fort.
Raised near the ocean, I learned early to feel the pull of tide, strengths of waves, and the dangers of jetties.
Lying on my bed, reading a book in the middle of the day was stolen pleasure with occasional consequences. Chores always came first, clean dishes, fresh laundry pinned on the clothesline, corn husked, beans shelled, porch swept.
I never minded school work though once when I was in 6th grade I received a low mark in initiative. I asked the nun to tell what that meant so I could improve.
A compliant middle child raised by parents with a strong work ethic, I could memorize well - spelling word, catechism, all the US capitol cities, and how to judge moods.
A latch key kid, before neighborhood locked front doors. Both parents worked, I rode the city bus, and picked roadside black-eyed susans.
I felt sorry for the girl with the birthmark and the boy who never fit in, though I don’t recall reaching out to those pushed to the edge. Compassion grows.
That girl nursed my father back to health when she became a woman, and the fragile young man committed suicide.
Looking back, I played well, worked hard, readily obeyed, learned from mistakes how to find better paths to a more meaningful life.
Unspoken thoughts Cloud my mind, Not the Hosanna Glory-be-to-God kind of words that make my heart sing - burdenson words, fear, failure, if only or need to. I hold shadows up to the light, and recall the way I wish it had been, the pain of impossible past or unlived future. I do not store up hurt of anger, but the times I “should have” collect like stones. When the weight becomes burdensome I breathe deep, stretch my taut body, murmur a mantra, note what waves creation stirs- bird song, dance of trees, flowering flashes of color, reminders of divine presence. I scatter my thoughts with paper and pen, and then give thanks.
How About That 