Dog Days

This time of year is known as the “dog days”. I have heard that phrase all my life. Recently as we were talking, my Dad even mentioned the "dog days". I don’t recall it ever being officially defined by those who used the phrase in my presence. I did come to understand how it more specifically meant the long hot days of summer such as a body can experience in July and August in the deep South. I imagine this particular use of the phrase came about when some folks who lived a harder life than I ever have looked up from working in such heat only to see a dog stretched out on the dirt as if it had given up, maybe even died from the scorching, unrelenting heat. That experience was enough to declare how the summer’s dog days had arrived.

Now, if you go to the National Geographic web site you will read how the Greeks and Romans watched the stars. This was probably more reliable than a phone app or the five o’clock forecast from the local TV station. Specifically, they watched the dog star, Sirius and how it was positioned in the sky. When Sirius rose before the sun, the Greeks and Romans referred to the time as the “dog days”. It coincided with the hottest days of the year, which just happened to begin in late July.

We don’t often look at the stars at our house. It’s not because it is not an interesting activity. It is just more an issue of time and opportunity. For the last nine months though, we have lived through some dog days.

Despite having Kayla the cat as a pet, Hannah wanted a puppy. After talking it over, Jennifer and I felt like we were ready to add another pet to our household. Of course, Hannah wanted a golden retriever or a black lab or German shepherd. We felt any of those were just too big for all of us, especially considering whatever dog we welcomed would have to spend a good deal of time indoors. It’s already hard enough to get a good seat on the couch with the three of us and the cat.

So, Jennifer began searching. One day in November, she sent me an email with a picture of a dog. She said she thought this was the one. The dog though was about 75 miles north of us in Tullahoma. She made inquiry about adopting the pup. The stars aligned and soon, she was on her way to locate this dog.

I picked Hannah up from school and we headed home. Once home, a snack and homework awaited. More was waiting for Hannah, she just did not know yet. As time slipped by and Jennifer was still not home, I had to keep Hannah occupied enough so that she would not ask too many questions about the change in routine. Since it was November, darkness came quickly that evening. Soon enough though, my phone lit up with a message. Jennifer and the dog were close.

The garage door opened. I told Hannah we needed to see if Jennifer needed any help carrying anything in from her car. As we walked down our basement stairs, Hannah began repeating “Please let it be a puppy, please let it be a puppy!” I am not sure what led her to say that but understanding what she was about to discover I captured on video the moment she laid eyes on the puppy. She began crying standing frozen in the moment unsure what to do. Jennifer told her to hold the puppy so Hannah did. She stopped a time or two though to hand her off so she could hug Jennifer or me.

As the excitement waned a bit, Hannah and I learned that the dog had been adopted briefly then returned when the adopter realized they could not care adequately for the puppy. Before they returned her though, they named her Josie and painted her toenails red. Undaunted, Hannah declared the dog had a new name, Sadie, and, then, Sadie, red toenails and all, had a new home.

Since that November evening, Sadie has become part of who we are. She desperately wants Kayla the cat to play with her but Kayla just growls at her, takes an occasional swat at her and I am sure if cats have any type of memory longs for the good ol’ days before the dog came to live at our house.

Sadie was a few months old when we adopted her. We are still in the puppy phase at this moment. We have already endured chewed up shoes, pens, tennis balls and stuffed animals. Somehow, she also has chewed through a couple of leashes and at least one harness. While we try to keep her away from Kayla’s food bowl, she is a sneaky one that will seemingly eat anything if given the opportunity.

Jennifer and I both sometimes call the dog Kayla and we sometimes call the cat Sadie. Sadie though has adapted because we also call her “dog”, “Josie” and my favorite, “Tullahoma Tina”. I called her this right after we got her then told her she should always remember where she came from. I not sure she understands but we do.

I hope I never forget that night Sadie came to our home. I hope I always remember the happy tears Hannah cried standing beside her Mom’s car on a November evening. Thinking about it all now, I remember then how I took a moment to drift into the future imagining Hannah coming home ten years from then to be greeted by this dog that she wanted so much.

Hopefully, there will be a lot of good moments for us all between those two memories. For now, we try to put things we don’t want destroyed by Sadie’s teeth out of reach. We have learned Sadie likes her tummy rubbed. We laugh when her ears flop backward. We smile when she lays on the couch and snores. We chuckle when she barks at a passing car. We are amazed at how happy she is when we come home after being gone even for a very short time.

So, in these dog days of summer, we walk Sadie through our yard. She stretches the limits of the leash we use to keep her away from the street. She sniffs every inch of the yard like a detective looking for clues to a crime. She stops now and then to furiously dig away at the ground with her two front paws. Almost every time she walks the yard though she plops down on the ground stretching her body out as far as she can from one end to the other. She lays there, flips over to her back, rolls from side to side a bit before stopping to lay still while soaking in as much sunshine as she can. Are these the dog days? You know it...just don't tell Kayla the cat.

Road Trip: Away To College

One January Saturday morning, my parents drove me to college. It was a road trip that forever changed my life. They left me well over three hundred miles away from the home I had known all my life. This new place was a small room with two roommates and a dorm full of characters who became among the closest friends I have ever known. I did not see that coming when we pulled out of the family driveway that Saturday morning.

I don’t recall much about the actual trip. It was cold and sunny. The trip seemed to take forever. We finally got there and mostly unpacked. Soon enough, it was midday Sunday and my parents were leaving to return to Georgia while I was staying behind in a place where I only knew a handful of people.

Life suddenly was different. While I had good roommates and made good friends then, I was still homesick. Within a few days of my arrival, I had the days counted until spring break. I remember thinking if I could just make it to that time when I could go home to visit, I could come back for the seven or so weeks remaining to finish out the semester and then never return.

So, I waited for mid-March. It came in the form of a Friday. My classes ended around lunchtime. I was riding back to Georgia though with a friend whose classes did not end until later in the afternoon. By the time we were joined by a third rider, we were leaving campus later than I hoped but we were finally on the road.

I remember some things about that trip. I know we took turns driving. It seemed to take a long time to get where we wanted to be. The one major thing that sticks out to me about that trip was a great realization that I loved my parents and family more than I ever understood. I remember looking out the car window into the velvety darkness thinking about my life and what I planned to do with it. I knew what I was doing was not easy but I think I then began to understand it was something I had to do.

I finally got back into Mom and Dad’s house after midnight. It was good to be back there. Soon enough, I would see other family members during the week. The week ended though. Before I was ready, we were on our way back to college.

The remaining weeks at school seemed to pass quicker than those first few weeks. It wasn’t long before my parents came to pick me up and we drove home for my summer break. At one point in that recent past, I was certain if I could make it to those first few days of May then I would never go back. When we left that day in May though, I knew deep down in my heart I would be back. I just did not see that coming when this journey started on a sunny, cold January Saturday morning.

Playlist for "Road Trip: Away To College"
Van Halen "Panama"
Nena "99 Luft Balloons"
Christine McVie "Got A Hold On Me"
Oak Ridge Boys "I Guess It Never Hurts To Hurt Sometimes"
Cyndi Lauper "Time After Time"
Elton John "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues"
John Mellencamp "Pink Houses"
Jackson Browne "For A Rocker"
The Cars "You Might Think"
The Go-Gos "Head Over Heels"
The Pretenders "Middle of the Road"
Tony Carey "A Fine, Fine Day"

Road Trip: Sunday Drive Back To Georgia

In our previous Road Trip post, I had traveled with my parents to visit my sister’s family in South Carolina. These trips most often happened over a weekend. Of course, the weekend always ended, and we would return home.

On Sundays during a trip to visit family in South Carolina, we would rise early that morning and go to church. Over the years, we came to know many of the people at the church a few hundred miles away from our home by visiting with them. We came to understand how important these folks were to my sister’s family.

After church, we returned to the farm for lunch knowing in the back of our minds the visit was almost over. In the early years, I know we sometimes stopped to pick up lunch from Kentucky Fried Chicken. I recall this because my nephew once referred to it as Turkey Fried Chicken, a name I think of every time I see anything KFC related. Other times, we ate leftovers or my mom and sister whipped up something.

After eating, we began loading the car for our return trip to Georgia. Soon enough, the car was loaded, and we were pulling out the driveway on a four-hour trip home. We pulled away slowly from my sister’s house. Almost every time, my mom and sister shed a few tears. My sister’s family stood in their yard waving until we were out of sight. In our car we waved back until we passed the tree line where we could no longer see my sister’s family’s house.

So, it began. We retraced our route home through small towns and communities through the mountains of South Carolina and Georgia. We knew we were about halfway home when we crossed the state line into Georgia crossing over the Chattooga River, where the movie, “Deliverance”, was filmed.

A few minutes later, we usually made a stop at a convenience store. This store was locally owned. We stopped here to visit the restroom and pick up a snack. One time we pulled into the parking lot to the right side of the store. My dad saw a man walk out a door near the back of the building. There was something about the look on that man’s face or some other thing my dad noticed that made him believe that this store was selling illegal booze out the back door. I am sure he still believes this to this day. Maybe he was right. It was Sunday. It was a small town. Most small towns did not sell alcohol on Sundays, if at all. Anyway, this incident did not deter us from stopping there throughout the years. Once inside the store, Dad and I would usually pick up a candy bar and soft drink. My mom almost always chose a packaged fried pie. We made a stop here then continued our journey.

A few miles away we began our drive up a mountain. Near the very top was a roadside park area. We usually stopped here to sit at a concrete table to eat our snack. It was a nice change of pace from being stuck in the car for hours. Soon enough, we were back on the road to finish the last stretch of the ride home.

On all these trips I was always fascinated at the various road and street signs and billboards along the way. This last stretch home went by an area in a county east of our home county that pointed to a community called Ivy Log. When I was younger I actually thought John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads” featured a line which said “to the place, Ivy Log, West Virginia.” Of course, the line is "to the place, I belong, West Virginia" but I just heard otherwise back then. I was sure he was singing about this “Ivy Log”. If he was singing about Ivy Log though I just never could figure the West Virginia part.

In the fall, we might pick up a football game on the static-filled AM radio. Sometimes, we stumbled across a station that provided a radio serial or show of some similar type. Mostly though, the AM radio signals bounced around providing nothing more than strange background noise.

We traveled on toward home. If Big Mama was with us, we drove her to her house. We helped her with her suitcase. We then hugged her looking forward to the next trip she would take with us.

Shortly thereafter, we pulled into our driveway about four hours or so after we left family in South Carolina. While we enjoyed being with family and being away for a short time, it was always good to be home. It never took very long to slip into the familiar and comfortable place that home provided. We unloaded the car. Usually Mom picked up the phone to call my sister to let her know we had safely made it home.

It was good to be home. Another road trip though would happen soon enough.

Playlist for "Road Trip: Sunday Drive Back To Georgia"

The Marcus King Band "Goodbye Carolina"
The B-52s "Roam"
Ricky Nelson "Travelin' Man"
The Allman Brothers Band "Ramblin' Man"
Sister Rosetta Tharpe "This Train"
Shaver "I've Been To Georgia On A Fast Train"
Levon Helm "Watermelon Time in Georgia"
Eric Weissburg and Deliverance "Dueling Banjos"
Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver "Country Store"
Ella Fitzgerald & The Duke Ellington Orchestra "Sweet Georgia Brown"
John Denver "Take Me Home Country Roads"
Flatt & Scruggs "Blue Ridge Mountain Home" 

The Long Haul

It has been a long haul in one sense. The time covers parts of six different months, March, April, May, June, July, and now August. If I counted every one of the days between the two points the number would be over 150. Now, at least for the immediate days ahead, I can stop numbering them.

I was scheduled to return to work this week after being away from my physical office for over five months. An unexpected minor health issue kept me away where I continued to work from home. I am thankful I remained employed at this time. I am equally grateful I could work from home during this time. These extended days were different than all the ones which came before though.

Almost every one of these days from March into August, Hannah was home with me. Jennifer continued to report to her work, so most days it was me, her and our cat, Kayla. At first, Hannah had homework to do daily which divided my time and attention. Hannah’s niece was able to bear part of that load for a time, so we are eternally grateful for her help.

Later, after Hannah’s school year ended, her scheduled summer camp canceled. Suddenly, her summer vacation was here in our house. While I planned some fun things to do, we were limited by parks and businesses being closed. That mingled in with my daily workload. We had our moments though. We used sidewalk chalk to decorate a backyard stump. We made a homemade lamp with water, a waterproof light, and a jar of beads. We even cooked smores in the heat of July’s sun. Some days, her neighborhood friend came by to stay for a few hours. We had some fun and laughs. Hopefully, some of these times will be long remembered by Hannah. Still, I cannot help but think how difficult the loss of our routine was at times for all of us.

Now, though, Hannah has returned to school. She can see her friends once again. She can bond with her teachers. She can learn new things.

On the last day, we were together before these days at home ended, I was swamped with work. It seemed as if I could not keep from falling behind. Hannah took it easy watching some movies. I felt the same feeling I have felt for over 150 days. I was torn between family and work knowing there was no easy resolution to the guilt I felt since it is so hard to find just the correct balance in such a situation. On this day, the choice was the same as it was so many days behind us, I could not spend a lot of time with Hannah or else the work piled higher.

After a phone meeting, I knew our mail had probably been delivered. I thought, at least we could go to the mailbox together, as we had done most of the days we had shared through the summer. I walked into the living room, glanced out the window only to notice the rain was coming down outside.

So much for that, I thought. Or, maybe not.

I then asked Hannah if she wanted to go to the mailbox. She said yes. We walked to the porch where she finally noticed the rain. I asked if she still wanted to go to the mailbox. She said yes. She even suggested we run to the mailbox in our bare feet. We looked at each other, smiled then ambled down the front steps breaking into a trot down the walkway into the driveway before stopping at the mailbox. I heard Hannah laugh and squeal as we ran. Fortunately, we did not slide or fall or knock each other over.

I opened the mailbox. Junk mail. The rain continued to fall.

We then turned, making our way back up the driveway, walkway, and steps in our half running-half jog. We stopped on the porch, with drenched shirts and wet hair. We laughed at ourselves and at each other.

We then noticed our wet footprints. Of course, the initial footprints were made just by reaching the safety of the porch. We chuckled at the funny shapes the footprints made. Hannah placed her feet on top of my footprints amazed at the size difference. After we examined these first footprints, they began to dry and fade away. We then walked down the steps to wet our feet again. We made our way back onto the porch so we could make more footprints.

This was a nice break for ten minutes. For Hannah, the moment was over. There is only so much you can say about a wet footprint. For me, I sensed work piling up behind my back. The push-pull of the past five months was once again providing just enough tension to weigh heavily on me.

It is too early to tell how these few months will be remembered for our family unit. Surely, we will pick out some of the fun or odd times we all experienced so we can look back and laugh. Maybe, the strain and stress that was present will slip away over time.

Hannah is too young now to understand the daily struggle I felt to balance my workday with her life. I tried not to let that pressure show. Still, it was there. I also know that battle is a heavy memory I cannot turn loose yet. I will live with it until I can reconcile it in my heart and my head. Maybe, at some point, it will stop leaning on me as much as it does now.

I can only hope that maybe sometime in the future, Hannah will see her wet footprints again then remember these days just now passed. Maybe, for a moment, it will take her back to a muggy August afternoon when she raced her dad to the mailbox in a late summer rain. And, maybe, it will make her smile and think how those days were good ones. And, maybe, she will marvel how memories are often made with little notice. Maybe she will appreciate how the same memories can fade into time like wet footprints drying before your very eyes. And, maybe she will come to understand how these memories mysteriously remain for life's long haul lingering close by to be recalled when they are needed the most.

Road Trip: Cruising to Carolina

Growing up, I don't recall our family taking what some would consider a vacation. We rarely went to the beach or to some far-off city for a week away. That did not mean we stayed home all the time. Being the youngest child, and a bit younger than my siblings, our vacation was visiting family who had moved away.

When she was barely out of high school, my sister fell in love with a local boy who had already graduated college and started his own career. Even though he was local, his career took him into the pencil-thin tall pines of upstate South Carolina. When they married, my sister moved with him there, two hundred miles away. That four-hour trip by car soon became our several-time-a-year weekend trip away from home.

Through the years, my sister's family grew. First, a son, the first grandchild for my parents, then, a feisty daughter. My brother-in-law had dreams of his own. He wanted his own cattle farm. They bought land, built a brick house there and began putting up a fence to keep the cows from wandering too far away. These things alone were enough reason for my parents to want to visit there often. They could see their grandchildren, they could help on the house and farm, and, of course they could see their oldest child.

I do not recall how early in the week the planning was made for our journeys to South Carolina. I usually was clued in about it on Thursday sometime, a day ahead of when we would leave. For some reason now, years removed from then, whenever I hear the theme to the TV show, The Waltons, I think of going to visit my sister's family in South Carolina. I think that is because that show came on at 8 PM on Thursdays for years. It is probably around that time of day when my Mom told me to get whatever I planned to take with me on the trip together. Otherwise, she understood if she didn't give me some fair warning I would probably get home from school on Friday and just get in the car for the trip.

Most days, my Dad could be home from his job by 4 PM on a Friday. My Mom would have everything as ready as possible so that we could leave as soon as Dad got home. If we timed everything well enough, we could arrive at my sister's house by 8 PM on Friday evening.

Sometimes, my brother-in-law’s mother made the trip with us. She was like a third grandmother to me. She was a petite woman with a warm smile and infectious laugh. Despite her small size, everyone called her ‘Big Mama’. Her late husband, who had been a tall man, had been known as ‘Big Papa’. Often on these trips, Big Mama brought along an incredible stacked apple pie as desert. It had soft crust and the sweetest apple filling. It ranks as one of my favorite deserts ever. When I was old enough to go out on my own, Big Mama gifted me with a set of green dishes. One or two pieces of that set remain and I think of her every time I see them.

Once we were on our way, we traveled the same route for many years. Two lane roads across the mountains of north Georgia into the mountains of South Carolina. Most of the towns we drove through were just like our hometown. A few red lights here and there and a few places where the speed limit was reduced. The ride was amazing in autumn when the colors of the season were reflected in the trees. We kept plugging away. We rarely stopped for anything. We had a goal in mind and my Dad was determined to get us there safely but also as quickly as possible. It got us off the road but it also gave us precious time with family.

Once in South Carolina, we traveled through a few more towns and communities. Finally, we had to get on Interstate 75 for a time. A few miles down the road on the big freeway was a rest area. Nearly every trip I made with my parents we stopped at this rest area. It was bathroom break time but it was also time to eat. My mother, who was probably responsible for gathering together 98% of what we packed into our car had taken time to make egg salad sandwiches and to pack away a few "co-colas". This was supper. Then we loaded into the car and drove on for about another hour.

Soon we were pulling into the town that became home to my sister and her family. We looked for familiar guideposts along the way. We drove through town out to the farm. In the summer we got there before dark. We piled into their house where the air conditioning, a treat we did not have back home, sunk into our pores. It just always seemed hotter there than back home. In the winter, we might make the trip during the holidays. Between their visits back home and our visits there, we likely saw each other six or eight times during a year. We had to make the most of the time we shared.

After arriving, we visited for a time and made plans for Saturday. It could be any adventure the next day, riding motorcycles, chasing cows, deer hunting, going fishing, playing with my nephew and niece or riding to the nearby towns for shopping. We sometimes visited their neighbors, the sweet older couple down the road who adopted my sister's family as if they were their own or maybe the slightly cantankerous older lady across the road who was more soft around her edges than she often let others know.

As the day moved on, we usually had some sort of giant meal for supper. It could be steaks or chicken with fresh vegetables out of the garden. It was almost always topped off with a birthday cake if someone celebrated one around that time or watermelon or homemade ice cream or some other dessert my sister created or maybe some of Big Mama's apple pie.

As the day drew to a close, a slight feeling of the inevitable began creeping in. The next day was Sunday and that meant another road trip, this one from South Carolina back to our Georgia home.

Road Trip: Cruising to Carolina playlist:

Theme to The Waltons

Brett Shady "Waltz For A Girl In South Carolina"

Dionne Warwick "As Long As There's An Apple Tree"

Marshall Tucker Band "Heard It In A Love Song"

The Outlaws "South Carolina"

Goose Creek Symphony "Higher On The Mountain"

Reverend Gary Davis "I'll Fly Away"

Hootie and The Blowfish "Hold My Hand"

The Sandpipers "Come Saturday Morning"

John Fogerty "Almost Saturday Night"

Elf "Carolina County Ball"

James Taylor "Carolina In My Mind"

Voice

I see her sitting in that chair, slumped slightly to her left. As I focus on her face I see her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, her aunts and uncles all in the features handed down to her. I know these features as I share them with her and her other children, her grandchildren and her great grandchildren. 

I watch her perk up then I wait for her voice. Sometimes, now, it's a bit shaky as if her vocal chords are trying to steady. Other times, it's a bit more clear. No matter how it is, soon enough it hits the pitch and speed and volume I have known all my life.

Usually a smile comes across her face. That is a natural reaction for her. Now, though, it is sometimes masked behind some physical pain or maybe even depression. Still, she tries, and for a time, all is as well as it can get now.

We catch up on things. Her life now is the most limited it has ever been. Time and disease has taken away most of her eyesight. The vivid scope of life she knew all these years has grown limited, darker and blurry. Simple everyday tasks she tended to are no longer doable easily or at all. The more complicated things she was responsible for are now distant memories for her.

Sometimes it all slips off the rails. She begins talking about things the rest of us do not understand or cannot comprehend. She seems certain beyond any doubt that what she says is the way things are despite clear evidence that things are not the way she imagines. It is hard to know what to do then. I know I should probably just move on without saying much but it is hard to know how to reign in what you think you should say even if you understand why you should just keep quiet.

In time, some semblance of normalcy returns. Her smile returns. Her voice seems a bit stronger.

As much as I can hope and wish for in this situation, the days from the past when life unfolded seemingly without a hitch are gone, taken for granted because they were days where all seemed right. Now, I accept what is left, whether I like it or not.

I search for her smile. I listen for her laugh. I try to find that place where her voice is still strong. While there are things she told me I was always remember I listen for something else now in her voice. I listen for that place where whatever she says is running over with a confidence that assures me I can do whatever I set my mind to do. I search for that because I know I will need to lean into that to see all this through.

Where It Started

I thank God for my mother. If I ever understand unconditional love, it started with her. If I ever practice patience without judgement, it started with her. If I ever embrace not giving up when giving up seems to be the thing to do, it started with her.

Not everyone can say their parental experience was good. Some carry that around as a weight on their life that will always be as close as their next breath. I understand days where parents are honored can be difficult for some. Still, I believe we should honor those who worked hard to get it right.

My mom was one of nine brothers and sisters. She met my dad and their life started together when they were both young. She gave birth to four children. One child was stillborn, a loss she never put too far away from her heart. She worked outside the home for a time but much of her time she worked at home. She babysat children, she sold Avon. She nursed skinned knees. Once she took a hoe to a snake slithering through our front yard. Nurturer, entrepreneur, nurse, defender. That’s my Momma.

I am sure there were times she wondered what would become of me. Worrying is a built-in component with my Mom. Still, she served as my greatest encourager, even during times she probably had doubts or misgivings about the road I was on at that time.

Maybe there were times when I felt like giving up but she felt like saying something along the lines of this Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats song to me:

“You ain't gone far enough to say

At least I tried

You ain't worked hard enough to say

Well I've done mine

You ain't run far enough to say

My legs have failed

You ain't gone far enough

You ain't worked hard enough

You ain't run far enough to say

It ain't gonna get any better”

As a parent, I take much of how I parent from how I was parented. Being a parent is not an easy task. You find some things easy and other needed things can be so hard. Still, we have to push forward, hopefully with the understanding and appreciation for the tireless, often thankless, effort, concern and hope provided by our own parents. The jury is still out on how Hannah will turn out in life. She still has a lot of growing to do. I hope I have learned enough to provide her with the tools she needs to be loving, patient and persistent. Her own mom does a great job of practicing these qualities to her. If I am able to do the same, I hope one day Hannah understands any such qualities I passed to her started with her grandmother.

Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats “Hey Mama” on YouTube

Seven-Oh!

On a recent Saturday, the family who were able to do so gathered at the house our family has called home for decades. Three days after they married, my Mom and Dad bought this house, moved in then have spent their entire married life here. On this day, we celebrated their seventy years together.

We all love the two of them individually. I would say every family member would like to emulate their best parts in some way. Some of us inherited some of those traits but we would be quick to admit those parts aren’t as polished or as useful as the ones they have.

We all love the two of them together. Being together seventy years says something. The sarcastic side of society often mocks marriage itself and with it such milestones. We celebrate it aware of the rough edges, the hurts and disappointments that came along for the ride during those years but grateful the good memories surpass any bad memories that may arise.

The celebration was a very simple time together. A few surprise visits, grilled steaks and a cake were the highlights. It stopped raining for a day. This allowed the March weather to cooperate so that most of the activity took place outdoors. Grandkids ran through the yard in the same way so many of us have done in bygone years. The rest of us squinted through the rays of the sun to see the faces of family soaking in the warmth on this special day.

As the two of them grow older together, we see them aging before our eyes. We see first hand some of the health issues that come from habits and the mere passing of time. We see how some of the routine of everyday life has shifted often making the new routine harder than ever on the two of them.

Still, seventy years of marriage is a landmark few couples will ever reach. It didn’t just happen without effort. It wasn’t always an easy path to travel. To them, it became something to stick with and not walk away from when things got tough. It took a promise between the two of them coupled with a shared determination for it all to last as long as their lives together.

Selfishly, I hope it lasts at least seventy more years.

Mom and Dad, Mammaw and Pappaw, we love you!