Making Memories

I'm not a person for taking photos. I will take them of the dogs, but everything else falls by the wayside. A friend mentioned the other day that I'm too busy being part of the memories to worry about photographing them. This got me thinking. I have a lot of photographs from various family gatherings. However, my favorite memories live in my heart. 

Tis the season... And these days, I get lost in memories. I let the reminiscing carry me where it will since I believe that I'm supposed to learn from them. When this popped up in my feed the other day, my very favorite memory came to mind.

I was a little girl, probably around 8 or 9. Most of you know that I was a farmer's daughter. And it was a life that I loved more than anything. Of course, growing up on a dairy farm, life and death were always lurking about. Life was my favorite part. Better yet was the babies. Dreams of being a vet filled my days. My dad saw me. He really saw me and knew me better than most. 

It was a cold night. I was fresh from the bath and in my warm flannel nightgown. Dad was in the barn, waiting for a cow to give birth. Mom was getting my brother into his nightclothes when Dad called up from the barn. The cow was in labor and he thought I'd like to be there to see the calf come into the world. I remember Mom saying, "But she just got out of the bathtub." Whatever Dad said to her, I heard Mom say, "I'll send her down." I put on my winter barn boots and my winter coat before making the trek down to the barn. 

I close my eyes and I can still smell the warmth of the barn. The scent of warm milk mixing with the smell of the cows. To most people, the odors alone would make them roll their eyes. To me, it is home.

Anyway...Dad was leaning against the barn wall, waiting and watching. He had a thermos of coffee in case it was a longer night than he hoped. I remember the silence as I stepped in front of him and he hugged me tight as we waited. Eventually, he turned an old bucket upside down and had a seat, pulling me into his lap. We sat in complete silence as we watched the cow tremble and push. Slowly, the feet began to emerge and I held my breath. Dad smiled and rubbed my back, reminding me to breathe. Eventually, the calf, a huge bull, was born. Dad got up and cleaned the newborn, made sure he could stand, and let the new baby eat. Once mother and baby were bedded down for the night, we turned off the lights, then walked hand in hand back to the house.

No words were spoken between father and daughter that night, but volumes were said. And the most amazing memory was made. In that moment, I was seen as the person I was becoming.

It took over 30 years before I felt that way again...seen for who I was and who I was becoming. That memory began with a funny comment and the beautiful laugh that belonged to the man with the charismatic smile and that memory is for another day. And while this memory belongs solely to him and me, this song means so much to me because of the truth it holds.

Blessings and Love

I was raised in a home where, no matter how much or how little we had, blessing others was a given. The belief was if you blessed others, then you'd be caught up in a storm of blessings. I can see the point to that, honestly. After all, I was taught that you never knew when you'd be entertaining unawares.

This is the problem though: so many people are preaching to others about how their religion is the right one, yet so many have forgotten about the blessing without conditions. And when it comes to entertaining angels, have they stopped to think that the homeless man or woman may be that angel, but what about the fact that your child could also be that angel? I know people who become so wrapped up in "serving" the church and community that they forget that they can serve their gods by being dedicated parents, too. The homeless man deserves your respect just as the elderly couple in your church do, but...so do your parents, grandparents, children.

I know people who profess their religion, but don't live it. They gossip ferociously about the woman who shows up to Sunday services in a disheveled state, but they don't see that she has worked the night shift at a job she hates, but still shows up to thank her God for his blessings. These same people will give their time to the community events, but skip their kids' football games because they "don't have the time." They will offer to mow the yards or shovel the driveways of the elderly people in their church, but can't be bothered to do the same for their parents who live a block or two away.

As humans, we need to practice the faith of being good to everyone. After all, who is to say that the angel in your life isn't your mother, your son, your spouse, or your grandparent? Blessing others isn't a hard thing to do. But we are so determined that it is about blessing the people outside our family/friend units. We forget that they need to be blessed, too.

See that is the cool thing about love and blessings: they multiply when you give them away. But it multiplies tenfold when you bless those you love. They don't ask for too much too often. Sometimes it is simply a phone call to see how they are. Or maybe it is a couple of hours cheering them on. Or maybe even taking a plate of baked goods to them and visiting for an hour or so.

Why do we find it so hard to bless the world, but we forget the people in our families who need the blessings as well? What if when you get to the gates of wherever you're going after you die and you discover that the only religion needed to enter that space was one of blessings and love?

The House that Built Me

This song plays and my mind (and heart) go back to my childhood home. In an attempt to gain deeper knowledge about myself, I've been digging into the memories I have from growing up.

The house I was raised in was a family home. My great-grandparents lived there. My grandparents lived there. My parents lived there. There was history there. And not just history...MY history. The rooms I played in, my grandfather played in as well as my mother.

I remember lying in my bed at night and I imagined that I could feel the heartbeat of the house through the walls. Not in a creepy Stephen King way, but a soothing way. So many people talk about a house bursting at the seams. In my mind, our burst at the seams from all the love that had been created in that house.

It wasn't a house that would win awards from HGTV, but to me, it was beautiful. In the front yard stood a HUGE maple tree that, for years, held an old tire swing. One of the roots had grown above the surface and made the perfect step for us kids. There was a lilac hedge that grew the length of the front yard. The breeze would blow through them in the spring and scent the entire house. Tiger lilies grew out by the mailbox. Two large oak trees grew at the end of our driveway and a yellow maple grew in the front yard near the road. The willow in the backyard made an excellent hiding place until Mom trimmed it. *G* I can still see the clothes blowing on the clothesline in the summer breeze. Freshly washed and dried sheets just off the line are always amazing to climb into at night. I miss that feeling.

Inside the house smelled clean and filled with baked goods. It was a rare occurrence that Mom wasn't in the kitchen, baking something. Whether it was pies, cookies, or cake, she always had something in the oven. Then, there were the meals. On the cool fall or cold winter days, ghoulash or chili would simmering away on the stove with homemade bread in the oven. Spring and summer usually brought lighter fare like creamed potatoes with fresh peas.

As much as I cringed over the pink rosebud wallpaper in my room (wasn't quite the girly girl), I loved tracing the pattern as I sat in my bed reading. As I grew up, I added bits and pieces of furniture to make my own living space. I had the perfect little apartment set up. A living area and bedroom plus I used the hallway as a place to set up a desk. I loved having my own space to be alone.

Before we lost the farm, my summer days were filled with all sorts of things. Gardening, picking berries, taking care of the animals, and on those rare days with nothing to do, I'd pack a bag and take off across the pastures to the creek that ran along the back of our property. A couple of hard boiled eggs, a shaker of salt, a glass of lemonade, and a couple of cookies along with a towel and books, I'd set off for the afternoon. Getting lost in my own imagination was the best way for me to while away the hot summer day, dangling my feet in the creek.

I remember Saturday lunches of burgers, homemade fries, and malts while watching television. On occasion, Dad would get out his guitar and play. Summer evenings meant playing ball in the front yard once chores were done. Winter nights meant board games or television. If it were Christmastime, lots of baking. Dad would turn on the music and we would sing and dance while fudge bubbled away on the stovetop and cookies baked in the ovens.

Sure it sounds ideal, right? Let's not forget the arguments...especially when I became a teenager. Mom and I had more than our share of arguments that ended with either one or both of us in tears. Dad would tell me later how he tried hard not to laugh at us because we were often saying the same thing and both were so damned certain we were right. We learned that communication (at least for us) worked better if we wrote out our feelings. Often, I'd come home from school and there would be a note, written on stationary, lying on the stairs to my room. I'd read it, cry, smile and then reply. Then, I'd take my own note and put it on the counter. It's not that we didn't communicate. It was that we expressed our feelings better on paper. (Not a huge surprise that I became a writer after knowing this, right?)

When I left that house, my heart broke. I knew every nook and cranny of that old farmhouse. It was home. I have spent all of my adult life trying to have a home like that and I haven't managed yet. I've lived in many different places in a few different states, but home? Never have achieved that feeling. I'm still trying, but I've learned that it isn't necessarily the actual building, but the people who make a house a home. Of course, after re-reading this for any errors, I can see the truth. The house was just the storage place for all that love. It was the people who made that old farmhouse home. I'm still working on building a home my own to hold all the love that is created.