Mother’s Day
Simeon’s Lullaby – Memories
I recently wrote about things we experience that we never forget. There’s something you’ve experienced. A memory. It’s in your mind for good. It’s yours. Your memory. Your experience. You own it.
Others might not understand or relate, but that’s okay. It’s something special God has given you.
Treasures from the Woodshed
Daddy and Mama bought the big yellow house when I was 13 months old. Surrounded by red barns, white board fences, chicken coops, and corn cribs, the house sat on 80 acres of fields, pastures, and woods, bordering a creek. They paid $10,000 for it. Grandpa Nutt said they’d never live to see it paid! But my Grandpa was wrong.
The Old Soap Dish
It doesn’t look like much. And to most, it probably isn’t much. Just a soap dish, from K-Mart, one might assume. Probably purchased in the 50’s. Pink plastic with removable drainer. The gold trim of its crown nearly worn from years of scouring with Comet Cleanser. At first glance, one might easily overlook the esteemed position it held through the years.
Where is Everyone? (Route 66 Chapter 4)
We could often see Route 66 running parallel to the Interstate. Any time we could get onto the actual Mother Road was good. We tried. And in New Mexico, we had opportunity several times.
Takin’ it Easy – Route 66 (Chapter 2)
You never know what to expect driving I-40, Route 66 – the Mother Road.
When we left Needles, California on that beautiful morning ( see my last post) of course we entered Arizona immediately. Desert all the way.
Get Your Kicks . . . Route 66 (Chapter 1)
“If you ever plan to motor west
Travel my way, take the highway that’s the best
Get your kicks on Route 66″
You’ve heard it. Even if it was before your time, which it probably was.
The Poppies of the Field
Passersby stopped their cars. Some actually drove in the big circle driveway, walked up the steps to the porch, and knocked on the kitchen door.
“May we look at your flower garden?” they asked.
The Fishing Pole
When I was a little girl, Reverend Robert Lindner held summer Vacation Bible School at our little country church around the corner from our big yellow house. The week before the event, he drove the dusty roads with a megaphone speaker atop his car, announcing the upcoming Bible School, inviting the children as they played in their yards, and creating excitement amongst our farm community!
I hear the Master whisper . . .
I drive past it nearly every day, on my way somewhere. Today, though, I pull over and park my car in the lot, now overlaid with weeds. I look at the church – an unkempt building that has been empty for many years now – and I listen. No music flows through its closed windows. No children laugh or play on the rotted teeter-totter in its side yard. No pastor preaches from its pulpit. Instead, I hear the sounds of the country – the birds, the leaves kissing the breeze, a tractor in the distance,