Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you.
Over the weekend I took two long walks. The first, on Saturday, was at dusk. I tried to walk my Kelley Ridge property line to the west of the lane coming back to the house. This is the only time of year to do it. I so wish I had the ability to clean up some of the wooded areas for walking and visibility. That was not Joe’s intent, however, as I found many wildlife shelters that he had fashioned. They would have liked each other, Dad and Joe. I made it to his failed minner pond (it leaked :{) and was deafened by the sound of the peepers. Then on Sunday I put on my DJ Ditty (okay–my MP-3 player) and listened to THE SPLENDID TABLE go to Tuscany as I hiked for an hour and a half on the east border. So beautiful. I found another flood pond and the fallen down stone fence that John and Dana and I found a year ago. I’d love to think of a way to haul some of the stone up to the top of the ridge. Dadbo would have thought of a way for me. If he knew I wanted it, he would have made it his mission to get it for me. Not that he should have or that I would have wanted him to, but he would have.
Like the little loom. When I was in second grade, the teacher (she was a substitute because Mrs. Artz was pregnant) wanted us each to bring a potholder loom to school, probably to keep us busy. They were metal in those days (the kind you would have bought at Wertz’s 5 & 10). Maybe we were weaving because we were studying about Indians. I told Mom and Dad. We didn’t buy things for no good reason. Mom went through her stuff and found a little 3X3″ yarn loom used to make small squares for afghans. I knew this wasn’t what the teacher really wanted, but I couldn’t complain, of course. I’d make do. That was what our family did–we made do. Dad came in late. He had been out at the rabbits. I said good night. I was sure he couldn’t detect my disappointment when I showed him the little loom. It was late. I went to bed thinking about how not to be embarrassed about the little loom. I loved Mom for finding something for me. The next morning when I got up Dad was already gone to work. I’m sure he had come in to say “bye”–he knew if he didn’t let me know when he was leaving, I would have a bad day. Nothing unusual until I went into the kitchen. There on the table was a foot square pine hand loom. Sanded as smooth as silk with little nails pounded in perfectly at half inch intervals. How late he did stay up doing that? Probably not any later than he stayed up putting finishing touches on my science projects or college application letters years later. The crazy thing about this is that everyone one of the seven of us has similar stories. He just knew. He just did.