Dawn broke with a muted light. The kind of light that does not rouse the world with any sense of urgency. These kind of mornings, come “softly and tenderly” like the old hymn says Jesus calls. Even the birds sing more gently on such mornings. They do not chatter this Fathers’ Day morning, but instead sing in hushed verses-all except the purple martins. The martins sing in cheerful trills, as only they can.
It gives me great joy to write, that there is finally and at long last, no wet paint in the old farmhouse. Of course this is a short lived affair, but the most of the painting is behind me. I have been painting for weeks-at night before school was out, and since then, every day. The farmhouse, is as old as it has ever been, but painting has not hurt it. I have also painted an old wardrobe and the china cabinet, a stark white. I do have a table left, if the spirit moves me, as well.
The yard has been neglected because of all the ruckus in the house -and all of Farm Life can attest to that. I plan to work outside, this week. There is still the barn, too. There is a bit more, for Kyle to do. I will clean up behind him and then paint roses on the stair case. Hopefully by then, I will spend some time with Lyla, by the laughing river.
I have a huge pot of chicken simmering now and another pot of butter beans. I still have a cake to cook, and cornbread to fry, at the last possible moment. It is Sunday- not just any Sunday-but Fathers’ Day, after all . . .and Daddy loves chicken and pastry.
After Sunday Dinner
Mama and Daddy came in the back door, just as the last piece of cornbread had been taken up. The simple meal was relaxed and easy, much like the morning light had been. I had fixed a cake, that I know Daddy especially likes- a cinnamon raisin cake. I added diced apples today as I had two that needed to be used. It was good enough that I talked him into taking some home.
Daddy, does not like a lot of fanfare. He has never craved attention and has always shunned “big productions” made about him. He is the reigning patriarch of four generations now and none of us want to disappoint him-not because he “rules the roost” with fear, but because, he has made himself worthy of our respect. He has never had to convince us of that. Daddy “wears his sermon, in his shoes.”
Daddy carried a lunchbox to work for over thirty years. I simply can not fathom that. His days were long as he often worked “overtime” and it was an hour to get there, and an hour to get back home. I remember that when Daddy left to work night shift, we would wave good-by from the front door. Mama would blink the porch light and daddy would honk the horn, as he drove off. It meant ” I love you.” We would all blow kisses -and we did so every time. We never needed to call a repairman for anything , from bicycles to the stove, when I was growing up- Daddy could fix everything and all of that meant “I love you” as well. We could always depend on Daddy and I think that may have been the loveliest thing of all. I think it is safe to say, that I did “grow up privileged”. I would just as soon sit in the shade of the sycamores, with daddy, today, as anybody, I know of.
I have always lived a simple life-but I came from extraordinary people-and my own father, is one of them.
Dear Diary, I am glad for mornings with soft light and I am glad for the humble kitchen table, in the old farmhouse . . .especially on Sundays, when Mama and Daddy are there. . .because it means “I love you”, too.