It seems now, that a new line of demarcation has been drawn in my life. The new season is “since Daddy died”. There are as many lines now in my life as there are on my weathered hands.
I can not write falsehoods and so there have been many gloomy days. How could it not be so? I do try to carry on . I have been cleaning up the footpath to the garden. l have moved some wild daffodils and apple mint, but sometimes, I just leave the spade in the yard and walk away. I thought to build a small fire, one day. I had gathered a good many of the fallen branches and so I lit and re- lit the collection til at last a cheerful flame blazed. I do not know why I “tuned up” and cried as I watched it burn. Since Daddy died, I do such things.
I write these things in the diary, not because I want sympathy, but because I want to record authentically, the many variables of the contents of a life. There is no gain, for anyone, if I “keep this to myself”. It would be quite unfair for anyone to think, that all of my life is spent growing flowers, doting on my grandchildren and communing with nature. After all “being on easy street” is always temporary, though I love that street. Oh, how much pleasure, it is for me to write about the beauty of an ordinary life. . .but life is far from from ordinary, at times for all of us. We all get wounded, at some point and I can not deny that. Recovery, is one valuable skill to have in this life. It is one of the most valuable skills, really for I can say, with full confidence, you will need it, . . and more than once.
April has been much cooler, these last few weeks. The wind, at long last has subsided to lively breezes. I have spent some of my time, on the “winter clean up”. It takes a while and the only thing that I enjoy less is cleaning the oven. It takes blood, sweat and tears to accomplish all there is to it. If vines and thorns were money . .well the rabbitpatch would be worth a “kings’ ransom”. Some times, I wonder, why I bought the place . . and some times I wonder, how I will ever leave it. I really think that I will always love this patch of the earth – and yet be thankful to sell it. I do know one thing, I am the better for having known the place, but living here takes a lot of gumption.
Since Daddy died, I have been thinking and reflecting a lot. Now, I am fully aware of the theory, that we tend to make the departed, in to heroes and saints, when they die. I have done neither. I have started writing “Daddys’ story in the journal that I keep for everyone in the family, that has passed on. Aunt Agnes has a chapter, as does Aunt Josie, Uncle Randy and my beloved grandmother. I write simply, “what I remember”, which is the title, of the journal, also.
As I write, I see no value in creating frills and flash. The truth is enough . That is how I feel now, more than ever, in my own circumstances. Getting older can be very liberating-and I weed out what doesn’t matter, as vigorously, as I do the weeds along the garden patch. At last, I believe, “that I was wonderfully made.” The desires of my youth, do not apply now. Presentation meant so very much,in those days. I chased after “fools’ gold” and collected fine clothes and even bought “spanking new” cars, really, for other folks to “take notice”. Thankfully, that era did not take long, for what a waste of vitality! Now, I look at the silver streaks in my hair, and the memories etched on my face, and do not draw back in horror. I embrace my life, faults and all, more than ever before.
I do not blame myself, for mistakes made in youth, either. I suspect, in fact, that the many encounters with “fools’ gold” only enhanced my ability to know and understand the properties of the authentic, precious and genuine thing.
Sometimes, I think “if Daddy died, than anybody can”! Ought I not to live, knowing this is so? It is amusing to think such a thought, and I did laugh about it, later, but just hours before Daddy passed, I could not imagine him actually dying. Even now, I can not imagine, how to live without a “father”. . . but every day, I do . . . and the oddest thing has happened. Somehow, I feel as close to him as ever. I have not “seen” him, nor heard his voice-not even dreamed of him, but I feel him, deeply. . .as if even death does not fully separate us.
While, I have been “up to my ears” in the work of maintaining the territory and sorting out all sorts of notions, the grandchildren keep growing up. Little Ryan has two teeth and is crawling-and pulls up on whatever is in reach. Lyla plays with her doll house/hotel, for hours now. at a time. She recently hosted a birthday party for one of her dolls-complete with decorations and cake. The darling Brynn, is babbling and climbing on everything-no matter the steadfastness of it.
I know one more thing too . . .being a “long distance “Honeybee” . . .does not suit me!