From the beginning, my father was always there for me. He spilt tears of happiness whenever he held me in his arms. He carried me on his back and sometimes tossed me in the air. He caught me when I took my first steps and stumbled. He helped me color inside the lines and told me stories about Indians and the passage of time. He was the master chef who taught me how to make grilled cheese and spam sandwiches. He taught me how to put a minnow on a fishing line, toss it in Lake Lavon, and wait until the bobber sank under the surface of the water. He taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike. He sat with me by a campfire, told me stories, and set my spirit and imagination free. On the first day of school, he held my hand and walked me to the front door. With tears in his eyes, he hugged me and gave me courage by saying, “You are my brave daughter. I love you.” When mother told me to ask for his permission, he would always say, “Go ask your m...
I awoke to the familiar sound of dishes rattling in Mother’s kitchen and to the thick scent of coffee wafting through the air. I glanced out my bedroom window; the neighborhood was lit by the first rays of the day shining through a thin layer of gray clouds like a stained glass window. The trees, no longer their virescent hues of spring and summer, were scarlet, gold, and copper. Mesmerized, I watched the leaves fall off the trees gently swaying in the November wind. A sigh rose in my throat as I thought about what was lacking that Thanksgiving Day. I joined Mother in the kitchen, mildly curious about the Thanksgiving brunch she’d planned for us at an undeveloped park outside of town. Instead of cooking the usual Thanksgiving fare, Mother prepared a thermos of hot cocoa for my brothers and me and another thermos of coffee for her and Father. “This will be fun, sweetie. Wait and see.” I smiled, covering up my disa...
Those of us who grew up in the 50s knew what the recess bell was. It was a bell—an actual giant red bell—that rang at the beginning of recess in elementary schools all across America. When it rang, kids lined up to go outside to play—disorganized, loud, dirty play. When the bell rang again, kids lined up to go back inside. We had morning recess, lunchtime recess, and afternoon recess. In between recesses we had class. One day in 1962, the afternoon recess bell rang at W.C. Daughtery Elementary. My friends and I lined up to go outside and play; once outside we scattered like frantic ants on the first warm spring day and headed in all different directions. Some ran to the slides; others toward the merry-go-round, the swing set, the monkey bars, or the seesaws. But others, like me, didn’t gravitate toward the playground equipment. We had something e...
Comments
Post a Comment