We’ve returned from another hiatus at our family cabin on the northern shore of Lake Superior. My extended family–brothers and cousins and their families–will arrive all summer in shifts, some unable to stay the full, allotted week, but most willing to make the day-long trek to step back in time.
Here is our old cabin we enjoy for a week each summer.
Nothing changes up there. The shorelines are free of condominiums and resorts; rustic family cottages and a few year-round homes peek through the pines and birches along the river and lakeshore.
The river water–amber from the tannins deposited upstream–empties into the bay, where the water is clear, revealing ripples in the sandy bottom from the ever-present waves.
Our sandy shoreline is peppered with driftwood randomly deposited during winter’s storms and strong winds.
This beautiful old place has been in our family for nearly 90 years. I am so thankful and do realize how lucky we are. Evidence of our grandparents’ thrift and resourcefulness remain, as do the memories of Grandma’s blueberry pies and Grandpa’s cheerful morning whistles.
All generations enjoy fishing.
Old, galvanized water tubs hang on the cabin walls. Pieces of an old wringer washing machine hide under some leaves. We still use chipped plates and glasses, worn and familiar, that came from our grandparents’ home. The whole place is like a private trip down memory lane.
Old, galvanized tubs hang on the back of the cabin. There have been there as long as I can remember.
The youngest generation enjoys the same things my mother and uncle did as children: fishing in the river, swimming in the bay, roasting marshmallows and hot dogs on an open fire, even feeding the chipmunks.
My mother and our youngest grandchild feed the chipmunks together this summer. Everyone was having fun!
Nine families now maintain and visit, an important part of each family’s traditions. It will take much more than funds to keep it going. It will take patience, flexibility, and gentle communication to create a lasting plan for the future.
But because of our shared memories, our shared love of the old place, and, of course, our shared DNA, I am hopeful that our precious time in this place will continue.
Local resident Jane Crist’s cleaning and restoration work in our local cemeteries continues, now with an even stronger personal connection. I have known Jane for many years, and we have featured her work in a past issue. Her project began in the north section of the Vicksburg Cemetery, a Schoolcraft Township cemetery in the Village of Vicksburg. She secured township permission after researching appropriate products for cleaning the old headstones. The gallons of specialty cleaning concentrate are expensive, and several community members have donated funds to help cover the costs. In addition, several community groups and individuals contacted Jane and have given her some actual physical assistance.
Then the journey took a turn and gained a sense of urgency.
Several years ago, Jane broadened her monument and marker cleaning and preserving to Jenkinson Cemetery on East W Avenue, with permission from Brady Township. On the edges of the cemetery, the trees and brush were encroaching, many markers were buried under sod, and uncovering and saving existing stones became her top priority.
Through her work, Jane learned of the Simmons family, who at one time owned property adjacent to her great-grandparents’ farm. The family had eight children, two of whom served in the Civil War. Only one son, Charles, returned. The other son, Lycurgus or L.C., is buried in Camp Nelson National Cemetery in Jessamine County, Kentucky.
Each year, when winter sets in, Jane turns her efforts to research with the help of Leah Richards at the Vicksburg Historical Society. Through Jane and Leah’s persistence, they uncovered more information about L.C. “He was in Company F, 13th U.S. Colored Troops, Heavy Artillery,” said Jane. “He died on September 9, 1865,159 years ago, from typhoid at a training supply depot.”
Jane was moved by his story, how he “offered up his life to protect us,” and it became personal and emotional for her. “That young man fought for our country, and when he died and was buried, his family would never have been able to travel to visit his grave.”
This troubled her. “I told my daughter that I just have to go. I need to go visit that young man.”
Her daughter, Cathy Sutfin, made the 800-mile round trip visit happen. In late May, Cathy and Jane traveled to the national cemetery, where they were greeted and escorted to L.C.’s grave, one of over 12,000 service men and women buried there. “This was a powerful experience. To see all those military headstones. To recognize the sacrifice men and women have given to provide us the freedom and life we have today.”
And then her emotions. “I can’t explain my heart. When I reached L.C.’s grave, I laid flowers and just kneeled and thought about that young man. I imagine I am the only person who has ever intentionally visited his resting place. His own mother wouldn’t have been able to make that journey.”
While Jane can’t “explain her heart,” I can sure explain mine. I am deeply moved by her selflessness, by her sensitivity, by her commitment. She is a servant to our shared history and to our community. She is impacting our legacy through honoring our past. She is remarkable.
Jane continues her work during the warm months, saying she has “two or three more years of work.” If you or your service club is interested in helping, please reach out at [email protected].
Like many families’ ancestors, my maternal grandmother learned to save everything and to reuse items long before the popular “repurposing” trend. Throughout her married life in Michigan, she practiced this home economy even when it was no longer necessary; she salvaged buttons, remade dresses, canned and preserved foods, and saved bacon fat to add with to the lard for her holiday cookies. She made special holiday goodies: peppermint drops, molasses crinkles, gingerbread men, and church glass windows. But the most memorable treat, and the one I most associate with the holidays is her rolled sugar cookies. Her recipe came from her favorite cookbook: Practical Cookery, published in 1945.
My grandmother’s rolling pin, cookie cutters, and cookbook.
My grandmother was sweet, strong, and stout. When I was five, she attacked the cookie dough with her rolling pin as I eagerly watched and waited. Her old cat-eye spectacles smudged with flour, she cheerfully pressed her sugar cookies with timeless cookie cutter shapes: Santa with his pack, a plump Christmas tree, an angel with fragile wings, a gingerbread man, and a gently curved bell. She helped me roll the dough, covering my tiny hands with hers, the knobs of the rolling pin pressed beneath my fingers. I still remember the feel of her tender kiss on the top of my head.
The cookie-baking tradition continued during our childhood in the farmhouse’s kitchen. My mother also used Grandma’s sugar cookie recipe, and we children made cookies using the same standard shapes my grandmother used. During those years, there was usually a baby brother in the wooden highchair, kicking and gurgling as the rest of us frosted warm cookies and licked our sticky fingers. We had different colored icing—usually blue, green, and red—and an assortment of candies and sprinkles to embellish our crispy treats. It seemed like it took a whole Saturday afternoon, and I’m sure it took every speck of patience our dear mother possessed. She circled the table, guiding the rolling pin, helping to move the fragile shapes to the empty cookie sheets. We rolled, baked, frosted, and filled boxes and plates with our tasty creations.
Last weekend we decorated gingerbread houses. Here is Helen.
Winter snow fell as the December sky darkened: the comforting smells of cookies cooling on the counter, supper simmering on the stove, and wool mittens drying on the heat vent filled that old kitchen. Eventually, stomping his feet and removing his stocking cap, our hungry father came in from the cold and his evening chores. Proudly, each of us carefully selected a special cookie for him from our private cache. He savored each cookie and each of our faces, and he mirrored the joy we all found in our afternoon of baking.
And here is Chloe.
I followed the same recipe when holiday baking with our three children, and I hope to bake cookies with our grandchildren this December. I will used my grandmother’s rolling pin—a prized possession I have cherished since her death in 1978. Many of her cookie cutters hang on our kitchen wall, and I will wash and use them, treasuring and honoring this generational tradition.
My cousins Jennifer and Amy and I with our grandmother. in 1977. We loved baking with her when we were children.
The same Michigan sky will darken, beautiful snowflakes will fall, and my grandchildren’s sweet voices—and my grandmother’s memory—will linger in my cozy kitchen.
One of our good friends, Tim Miller, has passed away. He had been part of our lives for over fifty years. He was a groomsman in our wedding, and Dennis was one of his attendants when he and Linda were married. Over the years, our families shared times of both joy and sorrow. We didn’t always speak regularly, but the comfort in the love we had for each other was always there.
Saturday, a few of his friends gathered at the Hide-a-Way to watch the Michigan, Ohio State game and to reminisce and share a few stories.
I joined the table near the end of their time together. The conversation focused on Tim and our many memories.
“My uncle once told me life is like riding on a bus,” our friend Kip shared. Kip said he wasn’t sure what his uncle meant and asked him to clarify. “Well, it’s like you are riding on a bus. Some people are on your bus in the seat next to you for your whole life. Some people ride for a few years before they step off. Some get off and even get back on.”
I like that. Yes, some people travel next to us for many years. Some join the trip for just a few miles. And we might have friends return to the ride—even after decades. And if we are lucky, we add riders throughout our whole lives.
Everyone adds richness with their conversation, insights, and time.
Throughout his life, Tim rode many buses.
Sometimes his rides were short, but man, he was a prolific bus patron: family, friends, Vicksburg High School classmates, Olivet College teammates and fellow students, co-workers, community members, University of Michigan tailgaters.
I don’t know how he collected the fare or had the time to have so many rides. And he always left something every time he hopped off at a bus stop: sometimes a joke, usually a smile, and our rides aways ended with “I love you.”
He was a character. He was always a character.
In high school, he was a member of our select extra-curricular vocal group: The Choraliers. Our choral director, Cinda Cramer, built a few numbers around his charisma and distinct personality. During one song, we marched around him, singing and smiling, as he marched in place. In another, he stepped forward and gave a short speech. The audience loved this big red-headed leprechaun with a ready smile and obvious charm. He had the moms and dads, the grandmas and grandpas mesmerized. He was the main event.
I attended nearly all his wrestling matches when he was a senior. He wrestled heavy weight, so his match was always the last of the evening. It was a much-anticipated competition. And again, he could steal the show. In the middle of one strenuous, grueling period, Tim, lovingly referred to as “Dancing Bear,” looked up at the crowd and smiled as he pinned his opponent. He was that guy. And we loved him.
Yes, this bus ride, our unique life journey is important. As I mourn our friend’s passing, I am reminded our ride doesn’t last forever and to not only enjoy the ride, but to make a difference when traveling on a new bus or rejoining a route I’ve been on before.
I didn’t grow up with a fascination for or love of cars. For my family, automobiles served to get us from one place to another. Vehicles were taken care of—oil changed, tires rotated, annual tune-ups—but we didn’t spend time washing and waxing our various rides.
Grandma was the exception–she loved cars, especially her Thunderbirds.
Folks rarely ate in their cars in those days. There were no built-in cup holders or fast-food drive-throughs. People ate at home and seldom even snacked in their cars. When traveling, the families I knew packed a cooler or picnic hamper and stopped at rest areas or roadside parks to enjoy some fresh air and a meal.
The first car I remember was a 1963 Falcon. It was blue with some very modest tail fins. We slid back and forth on the slippery back seat as our parents navigated the roads and turns to town. There were no seat belts or car seats. I remember a contraption that held our busiest brother in place between my parents in the front seat. I doubt it was designed for safety—just for the sanity of parents with active children. After the Falcon came a series of station wagons with a fold-down bench seat which accommodated our growing family.
I grew up with friends who had some nice cars: Scotty had a sporty red car and obsessively polished and cared for it; Sue drove a Volkswagen “Thing” during her senior year; and Rick drove a Corvette which certainly stood out in the student parking lot.
It felt different riding in those cars — they were flashy and got lots of attention from other motorists.
Most of us, if we were lucky enough to have access to some wheels, drove old cars or trucks: my friend Leeanne drove a VW hatchback we regularly had to push to start; our friend Anne drove a huge Checker sedan that filled a space and a half in any parking lot; and my brothers and I drove my grandmother’s hand-me-down Impala. We were thrilled to have it. In fact, the pea-green 4-door we referred to as “the green bomb” got me through college.
Here Scott, Steve, and I are heading to band camp, summer of 1976. We are leaning against our family’s 3rd station wagon.
When our kids earned their drivers’ licenses, we provided an old car built like a tank, a bright yellow 1976 Catalina. Eventually, the heavy passenger door stopped latching and would swing open when rounding corners. Our son, filled with pre-teen angst, crouched in the back seat and demanded his sisters drop him off at the middle school at least a block away. In mock elections, the “yellow boat” won “class clunker” two years in a row. As you can imagine, I was not sympathetic.
Today, I am still very frugal and practical about cars. I drive a 2011 Impala. It’s in great shape, and I plan to keep it until it drops.
Even now, l don’t desire an expensive or even new car, but I have begun to appreciate automobiles, especially models from the past.
I used to dread or avoid downtown Vicksburg during the Old Car Festival. It is usually hot and humid, and I wondered how people could be so interested in these cars with sweat rolling down their faces and backs. And sitting by one’s collectable car all day in that heat? Unimaginable.
So, it has taken me a while to understand this commitment. Several years ago, we visited the Studebaker National Museum in South Bend. I entered with a good attitude because it was something my husband really wanted to do. I planned to appear interested in the hours it would take to walk and look at cars. I knew we would pause at every vehicle—read every plaque and sign.
But I loved it. The vehicles were stunning and painstakingly restored; the exteriors were flawless, the interiors pristine. Several exhibits presented prototypes and explained ground-breaking innovations and the extensive testing involved. That visit helped me understand auto enthusiasts’ passion for beautiful designs and engineering.
Last weekend, I attended Vicksburg’s Old Car Festival; I had my hat, water bottle, and new-found appreciation ready!
Don’t we love neighbors welcoming us into their home? A server greeting us by name at our favorite restaurant? A friend approaching with a hug and smile?
The importance of hospitality and making everyone feel welcome is important and something my brothers and I learned at an early age.
My parents always taught us that how we treat people is important. That we never know the impact we might have on another person. That everyone is worthy of respect and, if the timing was right, a seat at our family’s table.
Helen loves to serve food and drink from her play kitchen.
If someone stopped by to see us around supper time, my parents always extended a dinner invitation. There was never a whispered exchange or hesitation, it was a given, an automatic offer. We always seemed to have enough, and no one ever went away hungry.
My mother also believed in always having coffee and baked goods available—homemade was best, but store-bought cookies would do in a pinch—in case someone “stopped around.” Yes, people used to just “stop around,” especially on Sunday afternoons.
Often these were individuals from church, but sometimes they might be acquaintances we knew very casually. Occasionally, folks stopped with a station-wagon full of children—and maybe a dog—and we kids would spend a couple hours playing in the yard or showing them new piglets or some other farm curiosity.
This taught us a couple things: the importance of preparedness and including everyone in our activities.
No matter, how busy they were, my parents always made people feel welcome in their home.
I was lucky to have many people in my life who helped me feel valued and included.
The first time I had dinner at my future in-laws, Dad Forsythe insisted I call him Del, and said, ”Now I’ll fix you your first drink, but after that, you just help yourself.” I never required a second – his first was usually so stout my nose tingled. He was as generous with his pours as he was with his affection.
If I am making, for example, toast, and my husband is around, I always ask if he wants a piece, even though I know his answer will likely be “no thanks.” He rarely eats toast, and even though he has refused the offer time after time, the importance of this ask is etched in some part of my brain.
As I grew up, I learned that in other families, hospitality sometimes involved different food and drink, often determined by family customs and traditions.
And as we all reached adulthood and were raising children of our own, the stop-around-offerings at the farmhouse changed and began to include a beer or glass of wine, cheese and crackers, or even the occasional chips and salsa.
As I watch our two-year-old granddaughter stirring up some soup in her play kitchen, I see she is learning and practicing hosting skills early.
“Well, hi, Nana,” she says, “want some coffee?”
Or she talks to her doll or stuffed animals, “How ‘bout some pasta? Come in. Sit down.”
Oh, how I love that—the youngest generation practicing hospitality!
Jake and Vicki, servers at Rise N Dine, help make everyone feel welcome. It’s the Cheers of breakfast joints.
Open the windows! Air the quilts! Wash the baseboards!
It’s that time of year for cleaning house and welcoming sweet spring.
Today, the wind has died, and we are burning the twigs and branches that dropped during the cold months, pulling old leaves out of fence corners, raking the remains of winter away. It feels good.
We remember several spring-cleaning jobs during our childhood.
Here’s the first three of us–Steve, Scott and I. Our attempts at spring cleaning were high energy and short-lived.
In the house, Mom put us to work—her tiny fleet of Merry Maids—and we began in earnest, doing our best to channel that unlimited energy of childhood: I held a can of Pledge, sprayed a rag and attacked furniture; another washed woodwork with soapy water and a sponge; one of us squirted windows as high as could be reached and circled the panes with an old towel; the busiest brother ran the vacuum, cleaning behind and under chairs and couches; and the youngest picked up and put away toys.
While we were proud of our work, it was a short-lived, sweaty work session, lasting probably 30 frenzied minutes, before we lost enthusiasm and focus and were released to play outside.
On the farm, the barns and pens also needed spring cleaning. Old straw and manure were hauled away and fresh straw added. This was something we also helped with. Dad ran the “loader tractor,” a reliable John Deere with a front-end loading bucket, used for nearly every barnyard task. We tossed down fresh bales of straw from the upper barn story, cut away the twine holding the bales together, and worked to “shake down new bedding.” Dad loaded our manure spreader and applied its contents on the corn fields, adding important nutrients to the soil for the upcoming growing season. Like everything on a farm, tasks and activities cycle with the seasons.
The old barn before its renovation.
Today, my house-cleaning enthusiasm is inconsistent: sometimes I determinedly open cupboards and closets and begin sorting and tossing; sometimes I arm myself with a long-handled duster to eliminate spiders who silently squat in corners with their quickly-spun webs; and sometimes I go to the basement to straighten the stored history of our life together—occasionally even parting with things I thought I needed to save.
I personally need some occasional spring cleaning, although as I age, I realize it’s not quite as easy as the Sunday-night-baths of our childhood, where we scrubbed our grimy selves clean and watched the murky bathwater circle and swirl down the drain.
It’s harder to let go of the dirt—the old grudges, the unproductive attitudes I harbor, the dust and filth that keep me from realizing my best self and life. Occasionally I need to push myself, to accept a different point of view, to consider and recognize I might not always be right.
We recently traveled some distance from home and stayed in a lovely Airbnb for nearly a week. We got away from the routines and responsibilities of every day, and we entered a different space, full of new sights and experiences.
We tried new foods. We rested. And we listened, clarified, and re-aligned our priorities.
We de-cluttered and did some relationship spring cleaning—recommitting and planning for our future.
It was an opportunity to refresh. To rejuvenate. To spring-clean.
Until recently, the wagon wheel leaned in the hay loft of the old cattle barn, where for the last forty years it had been collecting dust and cobwebs, nearly forgotten. Its spokes were intact, the outer hoop, nicked and scarred but still holding strong, a testimony to the history of our family’s centennial farm operation in Southwest Michigan’s Kalamazoo County.
Here it is nearly 10 years ago. Photo: Leeanne Seaver
Our great-grandparents purchased the original ground in the late 1800s; they built the house, barns, and outbuildings soon after. They began clearing and tiling the rich loamy soil of the low ground, eventually used to grow mint and grains, and created pastures and fields in the higher ground.
Lots of family on the front porch of the farmhouse. Our Great-Grandma Nell, front center holding the baby and Great-Grandpa Lewis in the white shirt and tie, back center.
Our great-grandparents fed a variety of animals, including sheep, hogs, and cattle, and they had a small dairy, as did many farms in our area. They gradually added to the operation and acquired more ground to produce more feed for the animals, as well as grain to market.
Our grandparents eventually took over this farm, where growing grains and purchasing and feeding calves became its focus, and Dad and Uncle John naturally continued the business.
My four brothers, our cousins, and I, the 4th generation, grew up on the farm. My brothers and I lived in the farmhouse. All of us also learned to work hard and to care for and love the farm.
A shot of the farmhouse through “Grandpa’s Garden.” Photo: Leeanne Seaver
Several of my earliest memories are with my dad as he worked–sitting on his lap, his chin resting on my tiny head, as he cultivated corn. I was content, mesmerized by Dad’s humming and the green lines of the young corn plants as we traveled back and forth through the field. I’m sure my brothers have the same memory.
Our daughter Amanda riding the tractor with Dad in 1988.
Or Mom packing up our lunch or supper, taking us to whatever field Dad was working. We sat in the shade along a fencerow, hearing about Dad’s day and sharing events from ours.
Or helping Dad with chores, feeding calves in the barn in the evening, directly across the street from our home, using a cart which at that time was supported by the long-abandoned wheel.
The feed cart fit perfectly in the aisle that led between two concrete feed bunks that spanned the length of the barn. When I was little, Dad fed cattle the same way his father and grandfather had fed them. He loaded sileage from the silo, frequently by hand as our silo-unloading-machine was often broken. He climbed that eighty-foot concrete-block silo rung by rung, carrying an aluminum shovel. He eventually stepped from the ladder to the sileage, then shoveled the feed down the shoot, into the cart, waiting below.
The barn and silo before the renovations.
I stood in the alleyway, listening to the feed hit the cart, shovelful after shovelful.
Then he climbed backdown the shoot and pulled the cart to the far end of the feed alley.
With the strength of Dad’s shoveling, the cart was pushed farther and farther down the alley. When the cart was empty, Dad would start the loading process again. It took probably two or three climbs of the silo for those evening feeds.
Eventually, the operation changed, and the silo stood empty. Dad stacked the sileage outside in a huge open-air concrete bunker, and he loaded chuck wagons using a tractor or front loader. Some animals were fed in an outside feed bunk, and some animals were fed on pasture.
Many of the animals are now fed on the pasture.
The old wooden feed cart was rolled to the corner of the hay loft where it slept silently, like Rip Vanwinkle, for 40 years.
Two of my four brothers eventually joined the farm operation full-time, which enabled the business to expand the existing angus cow calf herd and commercial sheep flock.
In 2014, our parents restored the old cattle barn—a point of pride for Mom and Dad–and about that time, the old wheel was moved to the front of the farm office where it sat until a year ago.
The silo was removed and the barn restored .
Two of my nieces now work part-time on the farm where they encouraged my brothers to open a farm retail store within the existing farm office, and during the last year that space was created.
The wheel now has a new life—providing the structure for a light that shines brightly in the retail store.
It is a symbol of the circle of time, of generations past and their hard work.
The old wheel has gone full circle.
It represents the life of a family and its farm ground and animals, carefully tended throughout five generations. And, as in the past, now the sixth generation is learning to love and care for the land and the animals.
My brother Steve and his granddaughter Riley, part of the sixth generation on the farm.
Today, I fell hard for an April Fool’s joke from my friend Leeanne. I should have known better, since she is forever known to me as “the rascal.” But, as all great April Fool’s Day jokes, it was timely and believable.
Leeanne’s prank brought to mind an April Fool’s joke-for-the-decades, played on my dad by his life-long-friend and neighbor, Bob Harper.
When we grew up in rural Kalamazoo County in the 1960s and early 1970s, many of the people who lived around us were farming the same ground as their parents and even grandparents had. And in addition to grains, many farmers also produced livestock: pigs, sheep, and/or cattle.
This picture of our parents in the lambing barn was taken just a few years after the legendary April Fool’s joke.
The farm directly to our west was owned by Bob and Nancy Harper–and like our family, Bob’s parents and grandparents had also worked the same ground.
Bob and his sister Liz, and our dad and Uncle John, grew up together and were as close as cousins. Bob and Nancy were like an aunt and uncle to us, and their home was one of those places we knew could be a shelter or an emergency call or stop if we ever needed one.
During those years, Bob and Nancy had developed a registered Yorkshire hog business; their work in genetics and bloodlines was reputable in the state and region, and they produced much sought-after breeding stock.
Dad and Bob had invested in some animals together–I think they bought several outstanding boars and sows to introduce another superior bloodline in the Harper’s registered herd. Dad was feeding and caring for these new animals in one of our barns, and those animals had sired some pigs that were ready for other producers to buy.
Bob and Dad were the best of friends, and I’m sure many of their regular conversations over a cup of coffee were about the potential profit they could make on these animals housed in our barn. Maybe they even got their pencils out and did some calculating.
And on April 1, some of those animals were ready for new homes.
In the early evening, as our freshly fed and showered Dad was settling in his chair to read and relax after a day of work, Bob called.
“Gordon, someone wants to come down and look at one of the boars you have. He’s really interested in buying one. Can you get them ready?”
Dad took his livestock seriously. He was on the livestock judging team in high school and at Michigan State University. He always took pride in caring for our animals, providing quality feed and shelter. He wanted to present those animals in the best way possible.
In my mother’s retelling, “He raced to the barn, cleaned up the pens a bit, and waited.”
And waited. And waited.
Slowly, it dawned on Dad that it was April 1st. He eventually came back across the street to the house, and I’m sure he and our mom shared a good laugh.
Bob never called him to say “Gotcha–April Fools!”
Well, they had over forty years of friendship behind them at that point.
I started an apprenticeship in “joy-finding” from the moment I was born. My parents taught us to appreciate each day. To be thankful for simple things. To be satisfied. My parents were not people who delayed happiness. They didn’t wish the hours away. They trained us to pause and to notice beauty in everyday moments.
A bluebird, feathers fluffed and ruffling, perched on a fence post.
A doe and twin fawns standing silently in a field’s mist.
A newborn calf on knobby, wobbly legs, nursing for the first time.
I wish we could all look at the fresh morning snow with the same joy as our little Helen. Look at that face!
Treasures—beautiful, preserved vignettes—cut from the long-running films of our early life. Colored slides I can scroll through, select, and savor at any time.
A new calf and cow on the pasture. New life never ceases to inspire and bring joy.
Even during my father’s difficult final days, he found joy in togetherness. In the changing seasons. In the touch of my hand in his.
I am good at finding similar delight in my life today. I know I am lucky to have studied with such skilled joy-finding masters. If I find my mood sagging, I know I can summon those early lessons. I can live in the moment. I can pause and seize a snippet of happiness.
Sometimes I feel it in my chest. A warming. A blossoming. It sometimes brings tears. Sometimes, soaring lightness.
New lambs, safe and warm in the lambing barn.
My husband’s blue eyes and smile as he comes in the kitchen door.
The taste of a sun-warmed tomato, the soil rubbed from its ruby skin.
My grandbaby’s tiny head on my shoulder, her breath tickling my neck.
Tiny moments. Common moments.
I am so thankful that my sister-in-law Sheryl captured this moment of my Dad sharing a moment with our grandchildren, Caleb and Chloe. This is one of my favorite photos ever and an image I have stored in my mind to return to again and again.
