Weeds and Roots

Where is the worn table, the tall weeds when everything is so groomed? I've often thought about both sides of abundance. Some homes have perfectly groomed living rooms, shiny floors and spotless stoves. Yes they make you feel special when you walk in. Everything looks and feels so perfect. But then... I think about my grandmother's farm. The multi-line phone that sat tidily in the corner. It was the only thing on that little corner table. Today I'm sure it would be littered with remotes and newspapers and monthly magazines, but those were simpler times. The stove was for warmth and was the anchor of the living room. The tile was well worn with time and the feet of 5 growing boys coming in from farm duties. I can imagine the growing feet that walked across that kitchen floor, dripping after a dip in the pond or after a bath in a metal tub because water was too scarce to fill the inside tub. Sleepy feet that made their way outside to the outhouse before the inside plumbing was added to the aging farmhouse.

Neighborhoods with perfectly groomed yards and fancy cars or an old farm with a proud, tall apple tree in the front yard with a prouder, tall grandpa below quietly peeling a barrel full of apples. The grandkids whizzed around him, but he slow and steady would peel apples one after another. His deep blue eyes were so tender and quiet and always cried when we'd say goodbye. A grown man crying, yes that was my introduction to the heart of real men. He loved deeply, quietly. Everyone else always said enough to fill the air but when he spoke, people caught their breath to listen. He lived content with small towns and small means, but for me he wanted the world. He told me "Go see the world, experience it, live life". My roots are that little farmhouse, with the untidy weeds and the uneven dirt road. So as life calls me forward I want to never forget that HOME is that which gives life. That home gave life to 5 boys; 2 became pastors, 1 a steel workers, 1 a wanderer and my father hungry for a better life took the city route. Forging an esteemed career with the FBI and pursuing his love for music and the finer things in life. He is now a rancher on his own small tidy farm, perhaps closer to his roots than ever. He and I share a kindred love of theater and Starbucks. But I will never forget the gifts that came from that simple little farmhouse. It's an old man teaching a little girl that strong men do cry when they love deeply. It's the art of peeling an apple with the peel in 1 piece, that I just taught to my kids, with a story that starts "You know, when I was a little girl, my grandfather....." It's the apple tree that gave abundantly in the fall and the joy of apple butter being made over an open fire and a copper kettle. It's big worn hands that just knew, what to put in the dirt when. Things I have to buy a book to learn. It's the way a ham sandwich tasted on white bread with a warm tomato from the garden and cold country mayonnaise in my Grandmother's kitchen. I don't know how she did it... I've eaten in some of the best restaurants in the world and I've never had anything that even comes close.... Those are the things that give us roots.
(Written for my father, for Father's Day) Happy Father's Day Dad. Thank you for giving me an appreciation for the finer things in life wherever I find them . I Love you.