The Weekly Fare . . .June 18, 2004

Always New Life

I'm a bit of a sentimental fool to be sure. The day they towed my first car away, I cried like a baby. This in spite of the fact that ol' "Vinny" (a dark green 1972 Pontiac Ventura II) was pretty much ready for the scrap heap when my two older brothers got their hands on her. By the time she landed in my possession the AM radio no longer worked, the wipers were hand-driven and the body panels resembled one of those Saturn moonscape pictures that have been in the news this week.

Most folks would have rejoiced to get her out of their driveway (I'm sure Dad did), but I was crestfallen - laid low by what I knew was the end of an era. We had some absolutely great times in that car . . . And some not so good ones to boot. (My friend Al Watts and I put the jack through the gas tank one day on the way to the beach but that is, indeed, another story.)

So last fall when my parents announced they would be leaving their (our) home-place of 35 years for smaller, more manageable digs (read as "no stairs / no yard"), I knew I was in for a rough couple of months. In addition to helping them prepare for such a move - clearing out the large amount of accumulated "stuff" that is the product of a family of six - I knew the day would come when I would actually have to sit down and say good-bye to the birthplace of some of my most cherished memories.

The process started off kind of rough. Not long after the announcement we all gathered at "Penarth" for Thanksgiving. Such moments are, of course, the most fundamental of family times together and there was no way to dollop those mashed potatoes on top of that turkey without the inevitable thought of, "this will be the last time," seeping into one's mind like water through a broken levy. I watched my brothers and sister going through the line with me, and they too dutifully prepared their plates showing little observable emotion. But when Pop offered that final prayer, I had a lump in my throat that kept me from eating for several minutes. The levy that the tears came through was my heart.

But as the months quickly passed, the rationale of their move began to overcome my deep-seated emotions. But this didn't change the fact that I needed to say good-bye. I wasn't sure when or how I would do it. But the Spirit knew. I had just dropped George off for his last day of school and was getting ready to pass the steep road that leads to their house when I felt the urge to stop by for a quick visit. I contemplated the morning's schedule and then took a hard right turn and headed up the hill.

As it turned out, Mom and Dad weren't home, but the coffee was still warm in the pot, so I poured a cup and ventured out onto the slate terrace that overlooks the small mountain valley in back of their house. I sat in silence and listened to the birdsongs as I took in the view that had been a part of so many reflective moments over the years. I closed my eyes and drifted with the lazy white clouds above, recalling distant memories of playing with other neighborhood children, almost all of whom had become lifelong friends.

Moments later I found myself praying and giving thanks for all those good times - as well as the not so good ones that had helped us become who we are . . . For there were plenty of times when "the vehicle of home" did get a flat, and a few worse ones when it came off the jack entirely, just like that old Ventura. But we inevitably got ourselves running again and back on the road, almost always the better for our momentary detours. God's Grace always seemed to abound just when we needed it most.

Funny how life works like that.

It was after that prayer that I knew that this particular morning was the opportunity for which I had been waiting. There were only a few more days left before Mom and Dad closed on their new house and time was running out if I was going to enjoy a final walk around with everything intact.

I started with the almost acre of property, heading down the hill toward my friend John Walker's house as I had done countless times in my youth. I then turned into our lower yard and walked its length, pausing for a moment at our old dog Ginger's grave before moving on to trace the faint outline in the grass where Dad's vegetable garden once thrived. A few steps later I came across a very old looking box turtle that didn't back down from my approach but rather extended his neck confidently and intentionally as if to say, "What on earth are you doing here?"

The fact that he, of course, carries his home on his back was strangely lost on me then, but is all too apparent as I write this now.

I circled up and around, past our old gazebo with the rooster weather-vane on top and to the spot where an old rope swing once hung from a long gone maple tree. In its spot now stands a dogwood of large proportion that frankly I didn't recall being there. It had clearly been growing while I was off and away and paying little attention - a good symbol, perhaps, of my faith as I "tested the world" in my teen and college years.

The inside walk went much the same as I paused here and there to recall some moment or open a drawer or closet to see if it still possessed any trinkets or items that might stir forgotten memories. There were several, and I could probably write a year's worth of columns on them, but I promised myself I'd spare you those illustrious details.

I completed the tour in my old bedroom - attempting to recall how it looked before Mom had turned it into the "grandchildren's room," complete with a crib and two twin beds. It was easy to conjure the old shag carpet of the 1970's and I could still recall the many varied furniture layouts I had experimented with over the years. My Dad must have been reasonably concerned that he had a very determined, yet rather ungifted interior designer on his hands.

As I was beginning to leave I noticed a bottom drawer askew in the small nightstand between the two beds. I leaned over to open and re-close it, and in doing so a tiny booklet, such as is given out by evangelicals on street corners or in mailings by large religious organizations, popped out. It lay there on the floor like a small tablet from Mount Sinai. I picked it up and read the cover.

"Always New Life," it said.

"Always . . .," I responded aloud, my voice trailing off.

I could hear the birds still singing their bright morning songs in the trees out back. I took one last look out my window. It was late morning now and the sun shone brightly on the valley and the mountain beyond. I tucked the small icon in my pocket and headed down the steps and out the door with my head held high like that old turtle - my home in my heart if not on my back, and the always-promise of New Life ahead . . .

Thank you for giving us all those memories Mom and Dad . . . We look forward to building the new ones with you.