Top Holiday Memories - Episode 14

When my older brother and I were very young, about 8 and 9 respectively, my grandfather gave us guns for Christmas.

They weren't real guns, they were toy shotguns. By pumping an arm on the gun, we could compress air in a chamber that then released a loud ‘puff’ of air from the barrel when fired.

The guns came with targets, stand-up images of wild animals. My favorite was the largest target of a tiger that had a plastic image cut into strips that hung from a small frame. When you ‘shot’ it, the air from the gun would make the tiger disappear until the strips settled back – waiting for the next shot.

My brother and I played for many hours with those guns and targets and anything else we could find to shoot –including neighborhood cats, and dogs. As we grew, both of us turned to hunting different game.

My brother is an avid deer and turkey hunter. I am always hunting for the next story to tell.

Top Holiday Memories - Episode 7

His wallet was tattered, held together by carefully placed tape and a couple of rubber bands. Being a child of the “Great Depression” my grandfather never believed in wasting anything that had the least bit of use in it – including the remnants of his brown leather wallet.

My grandmother, Nana as she is known to all of us, rarely got the chance to surprise my grandfather. He was just too quick mentally and perceptive about his surroundings, but this year she knew she had gotten one by him. She had bought him a new wallet and carefully wrapped it and placed it at the back of the Christmas tree. Wanting to make sure her gift would be the only wallet, she had secretly told the rest of the family about her plan. Every adult knew – except my grandfather.

Christmas eve we all gathered and opened presents. My grandfather opened Nana’s last. As he carefully released the tape, unfolded the paper and lifted the gift from the box, we all saw his old, torn wallet. “Who in the world gave me an old rotten wallet,” he exclaimed. As everyone watched on shock, he continued, “Why, I’ve a perfectly good wallet right here.” As he lifted Nana’s gift from his pants pocket – it was clear to all of us that he had switched the wallets and rewrapped the box sometime earlier in the weeks preceding Christmas.

To this day we all still chuckle about it and Nana – well she still pretends to be mad.

Repost - in my hands

in my hands

his

gentle and small

wonder and delight

an ebbing of laughter and stress

in my hands

hers

the future rests

tasks to be learned

suprises of nature and mind

in my hands

a bundle of memories

my daughter's squirming

my son's gentle dreams of sleep

in my hands

mine

empty now

full of possiblities

grasping for the next embrace

offered

to my hands

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 5

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

5. We all have a life to live - Live It!

Shortly after my mother and father met he told her that he would not live past 36. Strange thing was there was no physical illness or history of family disease to indicate that he would be right. Yet, he was insistent that he knew he would not live past 36. He told my mother this and she believed him. They decided to live life together anyway - until death do we part.

In the 13 years that they had together - they laughed, learned, and enjoyed life. They parented three children and set the stage for their future. They would often forget the ticking of time but for my father's occasional reminders.  He was gentle with his belief, but serious.

In June of 1964 at the age of 36, my father had a massive heart attack and died. He left behind more than his widow and three children. He left behind a life powerfully and well lived that has inspired us to live with death in sight. Life should be lovingly and joyfully lived each day.

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 4

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

4. Be Playfully Mischievous

I'm not sure I can illustrate this lesson clearly, but here goes. It is more the way my mother tells the story than the facts of the story that tell the tale.  My mother is not and never has been a morning person. She does well to drag herself out of bed and make a pot of coffee. Somewhere between the first and second pot, she will become somewhat awake and mildly social. She would sit, head in hand at the kitchen table - internally fighting her way into the day. My dad would always offer a cheerful "Morning Lib!" and lean over and give her a kiss. She would fain a greeting and turn back to her coffee. There was however a wickedly playful side to my father for at some random and totally unpredictable occasions he would lean over to kiss my mother and instead, playfully tap her under her breast. This always startled her and - as she would tell it even today - cause her to be aggravated to the point of amusement.

I believe it was the impish intent of his actions that always charmed her. Void of any ill, he was often playfully mischievous. He kept all of us one our toes and smiling. 

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 3

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

3. You need some regular time alone.

My father dug a hole under the house, poured some concrete and laid a few concrete blocks to create a workshop for himself. It was his place and we were not often allowed. I'm sure this was partly because of the many pieces and parts (see #1 below) too valuable and/or dangerous for children's hands. As time has passed, I came to know that this was also his place of solitude. When dad went down to his shop we didn't bother him. He would return soon enough and he always seemed happier than when he left.

This was his place of working it out. It was his time alone creating, repairing, and fixing things that refueled him. I think we all need that time away. I know I do.

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 2

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

2. Profanity is a sign of a limited vocabulary

My father, reportedly, never swore. My mother claims she can count on 2 fingers (i think that means twice) the number of times he used profanity.

In a moment of frustration, my mother uttered the "S*#!" word to which he calmly replied, "Lib, you've got something in your mouth I wouldn't want on the bottom of my shoe." My mother and my father encouraged me to learn new and exciting words to express myself. To this day I marvel the power and expanse of words.

Dictionary.com has an iPhone app that delivers a "word of the day" to my phone.  Why, just this week I had the good fortune of having the word "spatchcock" taught to me. Finding ways to properly spatchcock new and unusual words into my daily speech sure beats the "H#&^" out of profanity. :)

5 Lessons My Father Taught Me From the Dead - Number 1.

My father died in 1964. I was 6 years old. Even though most of my life has been lived in his absence, his life has taught valuable lessons. This 5 part blog series is about those lessons.

1. You can learn from taking things apart. 

My dad was a tinkerer. Because he rebuilt and repaired watches for a living, he was accustomed to dealing with pieces and parts of things.  He was always taking things apart and sometimes reassembling them to repair them. Sometimes, they just remained in pieces in his workshop.

As I grew I was encouraged by the memories and stories of my dad's repairs and fixes to take things apart. Radios, TVs, Hair Dryers (the kind with the plastic cap), door knobs, toys - nothing was safe around me. I learned from those disassemblies and often would bring broken things home just to dissect them and learn. Sometimes I could make a good something out of two broken somethings. Through this process I learned to be quite handy. I enjoy fixing things.

My philosophy is that if it has screws - it was meant to come apart. Go ahead. Take it apart. What's the worst thing that could happen and I promise you, you will learn something.

In Loving Memory

My father died in June of 1964. He was 36. I wrote this poem in memory of him, William Earl Williams

In Memory

It should be the memory of a hammer striking the crude nail
Driving it through the rough hewn pine
Slicing grain from grain

It should be the great effort, heavy grind of stone on stone
Sliding the lid to alignment with vault
Solidly into place

Such sounds and visions would be true reminders of the drama
Moving painfully among breath and dream
Caressing wounds to scars

Yet, what remains is the dull click of metal
Latches with well insulated springs
An almost insignificant sound

As the casket closed.

Brook Green Garden Series - Prelude

This past Saturday I went to Brook Green Gardens, one of my favorite places on the planet. I have much to share with you in picture, word and reflection over the next few posts. So, visit the link to the website and enjoy the photo above - much more to come.