Late yesterday, with a little encouragement from the General, I sprayed weed killer on some of the weeds that dared to poke their heads through tons of rock scattered over every square inch of our property. When it comes to weeds, the General is right, nothing is as unsightly, and it looks as though the owners have no pride in how their place looks.
The thing that puzzled me is that the first application of weed killer sprayed a couple of days before didn't seem to faze the weeds or stunt their growth. They are hardy plants, but the General is right. We must stay ahead of the game. The General and I make a good team. She provides the marching orders, and I do the marching. I'm not complaining; just stating a fact.
On the periphery of our property, I noticed some wild purple verbenas that took me back in time. And no, I didn't spray them even though they were nestled in weeds. The sight of the plants that seemingly had emerged out of nowhere, triggered memories of my paternal grandmother. The flowerbeds in front of her home provided a splash of color every summer. It was probably Granddaddy that planted and watered them, but it was for Granny that he did so. She liked the way they looked.
Sometimes she mixed purple and red verbenas together. It made for a nice blend. Yesterday for a few moments, as I stooped to look carefully at the purple verbenas, I allowed myself to go back in time. In the resources of my memory, I was a kid again and Granny and Granddaddy lived next door. Theirs was always an open-door policy. I can vividly remember the smell of homemade oatmeal cookies, the sound of Paul Harvey on the radio with the rest of the story, and the joy of simply being their favorite grandson.
I'm laughing on the off-side chance that my brother or cousins read this blog. They are going to be so surprised. Each of them thought they were the favorite grandchild, but I know differently. You may be wondering if either grandparent ever verbally shared with me that I was their favorite? Of course they didn't. It was there secret, but I intuitively knew. It was the same kind of intuition that each of them used to discern that they too, were the favorite.
Granny loved to make homemade rolls. They were unlike any bread I've ever eaten before or since. There is nothing like hot bread from the oven. Granny never made homemade rolls without making enough to deliver them to our family and to my uncle's family. Our homes were on either side of hers.
Allowing my memories to transport me back to around the age of five filled my head with thoughts too precious to forget. My brothers and I slept in railroad train pajamas, played cowboys and Indians during the day, made forts out of blankets or cardboard boxes and had the freedom to roam the neighborhood. What a different day and time in which we were privileged to be kids.
Now, during what some might describe as my golden years, I wonder if my grandchildren have the sense that they are my favorite. If not, I need to step up my game. Nothing is as meaningful as intuitively knowing that you are the favorite. It is my hope that each has that perspective.
When my dad became a grandfather, he changed almost overnight. He eliminated questions like "How much does it cost" and a "no" response to whatever any of his grandchildren wanted to do was unlikely. They had him wrapped around their little finger.
Today is my dad's birthday. He was born in 1923. It is hard to believe that he would have been 99 years old today. I can truthfully say thoughts of him often fill my head and I am grateful.
All My Best!
Don
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