As the end of the month approaches, many of us are reflecting on those who have left this world to journey in another place. For mine, they seem close. Part of me knows they always will be close, and part of that knowing is remembering. They have their jobs and tasks to do, and I believe a big one of those is to watch over us. One of our jobs is to keep a thought on them, to remember who they were and what they meant to each of us. The memory is a most amazing place and in our thoughts a bridge to far lands and close friends.

My nephew shared the following memories of my Dad and his Grandfather:

“My Grandpa was someone who always had interesting things to say. I would ask him questions about engineering and science, and he would reply to them in a fascinating, intelligent manner. He would sing songs like ‘You are my Only Sun Shine’ and ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe,’ and he had all sorts of short wise sayings and was a very gentle man.

“The last thing I discussed with him before the stroke, which changed him for good, was the old vacuum tube radio and record player cabinet. He had a box of vacuum tubes downstairs, and he agreed to look at the machine with me to see if we could get it working. Unfortunately, the stroke claimed him before we were able to complete this. That was almost eight years ago. I still have that box of vacuum tubes.

“I was fascinated by the old computer that he had in one of the rooms. He told me that the machine was separated into a game system part and a computer part, and that he remembered a kid who used to really like playing the original Nintendo.

“One of his projects was the old convertible that he had in the garage. He bought it many years ago, and it sat there unused for as long as I could remember. A day dawned near the time when he got his stroke when either he or someone else got the car working again. He took us for a drive and he gave my Dad a chance to drive it. My Dad noted that it handled like a truck.

“Grandpa would enjoy going out to eat with Grandma and the family. Such outings included the times when we ordered pizza for everyone. Back then, the taco pizza actually included little pieces of tortilla. When I was really young, he would sometimes draw characters like Mickey Mouse on the restaurant napkins.

“Then the stroke happened, and he no longer spoke much, but he was still a joy to be around. His friendly, cheerful demeanor and hearty appetite made up for his lack of speech. For many years he could still walk and would help grandma out with her wheelchair. There was a wit to him that shone through in spite of his muteness, and he would even be interested by things like business magazines and engineering work.

“The departure of my Grandpa is very sad, as all deaths are sad, but it should be noted that he had a wonderful, full life, and he will live on in our hearts forever. We will never forget the wonderful ways in which he touched all our lives and the stories that he left behind with us. I have no doubt that he has gone on to heaven, as he possessed the gentleness of a lamb, the strength of an ox and the brain of a college professor. We will miss him.”

 

Good thoughts and good memories.

For your enjoyment, here’s the refrain from that favorite of Dad songs, “Ragtime Cowboy Joe”:

 

“He always sings

“Raggy music to the cattle

“As he swings

“Back and forward in the saddle

“On a horse

“That’s a syncopated gaiter

“There’s-a such a funny meter

“To the roar of his repeater.

“How they run

“When they hear his gun

“Because the Western folks all know

“He’s a high-falutin’, rootin’, shootin’,

“Son of a gun from Arizona,

“Ragtime Cowboy Joe.”

 

Keep singing, Dad, and telling those stories.

Son Jim

On July 5^th, two days after Mary’s mother Me-Maw died peacefully in her garden, my 91-year old Father died peacefully in Minneapolis, Minnesota with my 94-year old mother nearby to hold his hand.

My Father grew up on a farm in Iowa. Dad had just turned seven when the Stock Market crashed on October 29, 1929, Black Tuesday, and the Great Global Depression started. He always felt they were lucky. The family grew their own food — so they ate, even though they had no cash money. I remember him telling me how they put milk in their bicycle tires, because they couldn’t afford new tubes. I’m not quite sure how that worked, but it was a good story and I’d always think: How did he do that? Dad was a resourceful fellow who was good with his hands. He became a mechanical engineer, started his own firm, and helped build schools, churches and hospitals. He loved his work, he loved to help people, and he loved to eat. I knew his time might be close when my sister sent me an early-morning email saying Dad wasn’t hungry. Dad was always hungry – he grew up during the Depression, and he always cleaned his plate.

We all gathered for the funeral. Mary and I rushed home after MeMaw’s funeral, changed clothes, packed our bags and headed for the airport. It was a good meeting: the 4 children and their spouses, 10 grandchildren and significant others, and 13 of the 15 great grandchildren. Not as big a crowd as that of Mary’s relatives, but a very nice family gathering for a sad and happy celebration of Dad’s, Grandpa’s and Great Granddad’s life.

On the day of the funeral, it was Farmers Market at the church’s upper parking lot. I liked that. We parked below and walked up for the service. Red geraniums lined the steps. I thought how much Dad loved to plant and work with his hands in the soil. He had a rock garden full of flowers, and his white and purple phlox were famous for streets around. The phlox is still one of my favorite flowers, it was one of the first things I drew in grade school, and I seek it out on spring car trips to discover the early blooms. Dad often grew a red geranium in a pot on the back porch. I have one beside the front step that looks much like these.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The petunia is another favorite. In Iowa and Minnesota, the petunia grows all summer long. In the Texas heat, they last only to early summer. I plant them nevertheless. These potted sentinels graced the lane where the hearse was parked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the hill nearby, the wildflowers waved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Among those flowers, the purple prairie clover looked out. This is wild clover. On Dad’s farm, they grew sweet clover. It was full and purplish red and when you pulled out the petals, you could suck the sugar out of the white base. As kids, we loved to visit that field and taste the sweet clover.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Black-eyed susans were bouncing in the mid-day breeze, reminding me of dancing ballerinas and “Corky.” Corky in her tutu is the picture downstairs of my Mom as a girl. Dad met Mom in Nice, France during World War II. Dad had been in the artillery, but they discovered he could sing, play an instrument and tell a joke – corny, but he was always something of a jokester. Well, the folks in charge transferred Dad to Nice to help entertain the troops on leave. My Mom was there with the Red Cross, doing the same thing. One day, they met on the steps of a casino that had been turned into a theatre for the troops. The story is that Dad found out Mom was from Iowa and promptly told her that he was going to marry her. Apparently, Mom was not so taken with him. She slapped him so hard she knocked him down those stairs. Dad was persistent. He sent her a single rose every day. At the end of the War, she hadn’t said “Yes.” They both returned to their separate homes in Iowa, about 100 miles apart. The rest of the story is that one day Dad was out there on the tractor plowing in the field, when a sibling rushed up yelling that a girl was on the phone. Dad jumped off, rushed inside, rushed out, jumped in the car and took off. The tractor was still running. I was born about a year later. You gotta’ watch out for those dancing ballerinas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butterfly weed. That’s what they call this golden orange wildflower in Minnesota. On the hill as we drove off following Dad in the hearse, the butterfly weed was bright as the sun. When we arrived home a few days later, a little orange flower was in a pot on the front bench. They looked the same. My granddaughter with my mother’s name had left it for us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We drove between the fields of white markers, row-on-row under the blue sky, and stopped for the interment ceremony at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. The old soldiers were already there, standing at attention with their vintage rifles. The squad gave Dad a 21-gun salute, and the officer-in-charge presented Mom a neatly folded American flag. The children held their ears. We all cried a bit. Then, the kids ran and played between the white stone markers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My granddaughter with Corky’s smile pulled a rose from one of the arrangements and placed it in my lapel. I have it still. As we left, I watched the white markers of the soldiers climb the far hill and thought, “It’s really not that far.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

For each story, there’s an end and a new beginning.

Grandpa Jim

It is with sadness I inform you that Uncle Joe’s mother died in her garden on July 3^rd. MeMaw, as she was called by her 12 children, 27 grandchildren and 18 great grandchildren, was picking tomatoes. My wife and Uncle Joe are two of those twelve children. The garden this year was one of Me-Maw’s best. A son-in-law found her resting peacefully between the rows, a smile on her face. The bowl of tomatoes was placed carefully on the ground. Not a tomato was lost.

I walked the garden the next day, the Fourth of July, and took these pictures. The day was cool for Texas, like MeMaw had arranged the weather, and the sun was bright and welcoming.

Down past the tomato plants and over in the corner, I found the watermelons. One was already inside on the counter waiting for the arrving relatives and friends. Over the next five days, until the funeral on Monday, July 8^th, I think we had watermelon for every meal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cantaloupes were not quite ready. Here’s a pair peaking out to watch the garden strollers. Whenever I looked out, someone was walking in the garden between the plants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

MeMaw’s garden is so old that the okra grows wild, pushed back to make room for the other vegetables, but always left to bloom, produce and seed for the next year. See the little ones here — with a morning yellow and black-centered flower hidden between the leaves. It’s best to pick the okra small, because the small ones are the tenderest and the best for canning. Folks were in the building beside the house canning or packing vegetables every day – okra included. I don’t think it will stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most of the tomatoes had been picked by the time I reached the garden. Here are a few green waiting for the next days to ripen, and one red waving goodbye. There’s nothing quite like a fresh tomato.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The green beans were wiggling and stretching, hoping to join their friends in the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Along the side of the house is an old peach tree. That tree has weathered many a storm. It’s not as big as it used to be, and it bends some where it hangs over the sidewalk. Despite the many seasons, I found peaches ripening on its branches, proving the worth of that old friend. MeMaw loved her peach jams, jellies, pies and cobblers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not far away are the pomegranates. An odd fruit, about the only thing that ever happened to a pomegranate was to get eaten by a kid. Eat and Spit. Spit and Eat. It was great fun for many a child over many of year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The poppies were gone. After the poppy flowers bloom, MeMaw would wait for the pods to dry on the stems. She’d know they were ready when she’d shake them and hear the little black seeds inside rattle back and forth. Then, she’d snip the pods, sit in a chair on the back porch, carefully cut the tops off the pods and pour the seeds into a bowl. When the bowl was full, MeMaw would transfer the precious cargo to plastic bags to store in the cool of the freezer. The seeds would patiently wait there until rescued, ground and boiled into the sweet-tasting poppy seed mixture for poppy seed kolaches and buchta. Me-Maw’s poppy seed buchta was the best.

Back to the porch and Grandma with those pods, MeMaw always saved the “empty” pods because she always left a few of the tiny black seeds inside. She’d take those pods and throw them over the plowed garden for next year’s poppies and next year’s poppy seed crop. There was always a next year for MeMaw.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This year someone else will spread the poppy pods. Next year, there will be poppy flowers to welcome MeMaw’s garden.

We miss you, Dear One, and look forward to seeing you again,

Grandpa Jim

The following is an overheard conversation that occurred a few weeks ago outside the NorthPark Mall in Dallas, Texas:

“The sun is the highest I’ve ever seen it.”

“No, it’s the highest in the sky that you’ve seen the sun since last June 20, 2012. This is June 21, 2013. It’s the summer solstice.”

“What’s that?”

“In the Northern Hemisphere, the summer solstice is the first official day of summer. It’s the day when our sun, ‘sol’, appears to stand still, ‘stice’, as high up in the sky as it will get. After the summer solstice, that burning fireball reverses its path and starts moving south again. Today, on the summer solstice, the northern half of our planet enjoys the most sun, the most daylight, of the whole year.”

“Cool.”

“No, warm, even hot, because on this day up here in the north you see more of our star than any other day.”

“Is this as hot as it will get?”

“Nope, this is Texas, it will get hotter.”

“Even though . . . the days will get shorter?”

“Yep?”

“Why?”

“The short answer is the atmosphere is recovering from the cold weather and heating up slowly. The more precise answer goes something like this: Even though the heat input is at maximum on the solstice day, the rate of heat input (gain) striking the Earth continues to be greater than the rate of heat dissipation (loss) from the Earth for some time. In fact, through much of the summer, more heat is entering the Northern Hemisphere than is leaving. So, until the days get much shorter and the heat loss exceeds the heat gain, the average daytime temperature keeps increasing. As autumn approaches, the balance falls back, and the shorter days start to become cooler.”

“Cool.”

“Right. I knew you’d get it.”

“But . . . now it’s getting hotter?”

“You got it there — fry-an-egg-on-the-street-and-eat-it-with-hot-sauce, hotter-in-Texas hot. And, here is a picture of the egg popping in its frying pan on the concrete:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“For that egg, you will, of course, need a liberal ladeling of hotter-than-hot Texas hot sauce. So, for you to try, here’s a local bottle of one of our favorite salsas with its fire-engine red label, jalapeno man with shades and the warm warning: “Not Responsible for Obsession.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“To salvage those burning taste buds, you quickly pick some cooling mint:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Then, you rush into the kitchen, where Ms. Mary crushes that fresh mint into a pitcher of ice water with fresh lime for that oh so refresing: Ms. Mary’s Summer Mint Water:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Smacking your lips and beginning to feel your mouth again after your jentacular repast from the street, you stare at the quintessential Dallas, Texas summer bloom — the white crepe myrtle:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Responding to a hushed cry from inside, you rush back to spy the rising Texas sun burning through the roofs of Uptown Dallas:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Swiveling your head, you catch the mists before the Opera in Paris, France evaporating at the solar assault of the Lone Star State, as you quickly pull the shades and save the scene:

 

 

 

 

 

 

“As a matter of fact, I just looked into my crystal ball and the temperature in Dallas will hit 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37.8 Celsius) for the first time next Thursday, June 27^th. On Friday, June 28^th, the triple digits will soar to 104 degrees F (40 C), dropping back to 100 F on Saturday, followed by a cool front.”

“Cool. Why?”

“Because the weather in Texas is unpredictable. You know that?”

“How cool?”

“Well, today, if today were Monday, July 1^st (and it is, but don’t tell everyone), the high at 3:53 pm was 88 degrees Fahrenheit (31.1 degrees Celsius), and that’s really cool for a high in Dallas in July.”

“If that were today (and I’m confused, because I thought we started talking today, June 21^st), then what would be tonight’s low — whatever night it is?”

“You are perfectly right to be confused, because today is June 21^st and today is July 1^st, and the predicted low on July 1, 2013, tonight, is 64 degrees F (17.8 C).”

“Cool . . . I think.”

“You can say and think that again (but, please don’t), because the average low for this evening in Dallas has been 75 F (23.9 C), for a predicted difference of -11 degrees F (-6.1 C) with where tonight is going.”

“Will it actually be that cool in the middle of the beginning of a hot summer?”

“I don’t know. I can’t predict the future. Can you?”

“Tomorrow, I can . . . I think.”

“Cool.”

* * *

And, you stay cool in the hot weather, if you can – even if you have to jump back and forth, fry an egg on the sidewalk, cover breakfast with hot sauce and gulp a big glass of Ms. Mary’s Summer Mint Water to stay refreshed and have fun with the sun.

Happy Summer!!

Grandpa Jim