Letting Go

I sold my dad's truck yesterday. To some, that might not be much to brag about, but to me, it's a very big deal. My dad died from bone cancer seven years ago this past March. My relationship with my dad was complicated. I loved Dad and I knew he loved me, but I was always trying to make him proud and I constantly felt like I missed the mark. Regardless, I still miss Dad quite often. My decision to keep his truck after he died was not only practical, (I needed a truck to haul mulch for my flower beds and to take my big outdoor dog to the vet) but also sentimental. Also, my husband and I wanted to buy a Harley, but we couldn't afford a new car payment and motorcycle payment at the same time. So we opted to keep the truck as part of my share of Dad's estate which allowed us to allot funds for the Harley. At first, my husband used the truck as his personal vehicle. And I occasionally used it when I needed to haul something. I'm sure Dad would have been pleased that his truck was being put to good use.

The first time I drove the truck, it was just about three weeks after Dad had passed. I wasn't even thinking how it would affect me; I was just thinking I needed to take my dog, Suki, to the vet. That afternoon, I got in and started it up. One mile down the road, it hit me. The interior of the truck still held his scent, a mixture of cinnamon oil, Polo cologne and tabacco. The counsole was also still full of his stuff; pens, reading glasses, spare change, business cards, and odd rocks that Dad liked to pick up wherever he went. I started crying so hard I almost had to pull over. I don't know how I made it home. Everytime I got in the truck, I was reminded of my dad, and the good memories started outweighing the bad.

After we had the Harley paid off, and the air conditioner in the truck quit working, Jeff decided it was time for him to get a new vehicle. We still needed a truck, and even though I told Jeff it would be okay to trade in Dad's truck, I think he knew deep down that I wasn't really ready to let it go. So we kept it, and Jeff bought a new sedan. So for the past two and one-half years the truck has set off in the side yard not being driven much and getting covered with a layer of black tree sap. When we have decided to use the truck to haul something, often times the battery has been dead or it's had some other mechanical problem. Jeff has procrastinated with taking it to a mechanic, not really wanting to spend money on repairs for something we don't use that often. Lately when I've looked at the truck, I've thought about how uspset Dad would be that his property was not being properly cared for. The thought of giving the truck to my son had occured to me, but I was afraid that it wouldn't be reliable enough for him to drive from Nashville to visit us back home. After praying about it for some time, the solution presented itself.

My husband got bit by the new car bug, and traded his sedan for an extended-cab pickup. There was no longer any need to keep Dad's old pickup. So, when my neighbor, Steve, mentioned that he was upset over a missed opportunity to purchase his aunt's old Toyota Corolla for $800 for his teenage son, I thought, "I'll sell you my dad's truck for $800." But, I didn't say what was on my mind. I let the moment pass. I still had to ask myself if I was really ready to let go of the truck. Some part of me was afraid that letting go of the truck would be like letting go of my dad all over again. A week later, my husband called me from work and informed me that a co-worker was interested in purchasing the truck for his teenage son who had just gotten his license. Was I ready to let it go? Without a doubt, I was finally ready. However, I felt that I owed my neighbor first dibs. I told Jeff that I would offer to sell it to Steve first, and if he didn't want it, then the co-worker could purchase it for $800. Steve jumped at the offer and by the end of the week had given me $800 cash.

It was exciting to see Steve and his son working on the truck; cleaning it up, and fixing things under the hood. Within a few days, they had the engine roaring like a lion, and Dad's old truck found a new life. It's been theraputic for me to see someone taking care of Dad's truck and a weight off my shoulders that the truck is not just being left to rust. And when Jeff and I cleaned out the truck, I had an overwhelming feeling that I had made Dad proud.

Cookies, food for the soul

Everybody that knows me, knows that I am a chocoholic. And everybody that knows me really well, knows that I'm also a cookie monster. Cake is okay, pie is better, but cookies, well, cookies are just food for the soul. Occasionally, I will buy store bought package cookies, but there's just nothing like a soft, warm, homemade cookie fresh out of the oven.

I've had a sweet tooth as far back as I can remember. I guess it's just in my genes. I know that three of my four grandparents had a sweet tooth as well, because I would often satisfy my sweet cravings with their private stashes. My maternal grandfather would bring home a bag of candy bars and hide them in his closet away from the rest of the family. Often, late at night when everybody else in the house was in bed asleep, Papa would pull out the hidden treasure of chocolates. He would always let me have first pick of the goodies. Then we would settle in to enjoy our treats without having to worry about sharing with anybody, and our story telling adventures would begin.

Whenever I couldn't find my grandfather's stash, I would prowl into my grandmother, Tommie's kitchen cabinets looking for anything sweet. The odds that I could find rasins or chocolate chips were always in my favor. Thus began my love affair with dark chocolate! If Tommie wasn't too busy, she would often suggest we use the chips and bake some cookies. At first I saw baking as a slow means of getting what I wanted. But soon, I saw it as an adventure with my grandmother as she gave me lessons about cooking and life. She was always interested in her grandkids lives, and she knew how to talk to us and just how to ask questions where she could find out what was going on without making it seem like she was interrogating. She was the smartest cookie I ever knew. So while the candy and cookies fed my sweet tooth, my grandparents fed my soul with attention, encouragement and love.

And now, I love to bake cookies. It always takes me back to my grandmother's kitchen and our chats. Baking envelopes me in warmth and I enjoy sharing the love. I enjoy baking cookies with family, especially my son or my nieces. It gives us an opportunity to spend time together; to slow down, to talk, and to savor the flavor of life.

Showers of Blessings

It's a stormy day today here in Tennesse. But we really needed the rain. In my quite time with God this morning, I was thanking him for the rain and praising Him for the blessing. And I got to thinking about all the other everyday blessings we often take for granted.

In these times of economic turmoil, I am truly blessed to have a good job and a wonderful boss. I am blessed to have a roof over my head that doesn't leak. I am blessed to have a warm, safe home that has stood against the storms. I am blessed to have a loving husband who helps me with household chores when I ask. (Sometimes I forget to ask, and he doesn't do the things that I expect him to do. But that's a discussion for another day.) I am blessed that my husband also has a good job. We are blessed that we no longer have credit card debt. I am blessed that my grown son lives outside my home and supports himself. I am blessed to be able to admitt that, especially since I am an empty nester who often wishes my son were a little boy again. I am blessed to have a sweet little dog, Lucy, who is my "perpetual child." I am blessed with good health. I am blessed with a mom who lives close by, and who is also in good health. I am blessed with two sisters who are also my friends. I am blessed that my sister who was diagnosed with breast cancer last year is now cancer free. I am blessed with a huge extended family. I am blessed with a wonderful church family, and friends galore, most of whom would give me the shirt off their back if I were truly in need. I am blessed that all of my family and friends give me love, laughter, encouragement, and memories that make up the fabric of my life.

I could go on for days about the tangible things in my life, like food on the table, a good dependible car, nice clothes, furnishings, etc., but when it comes right down to it, it's the intangible things that matter most. Regardless, I am truly showered with blessings!

Writer's Heart

When I was a little girl, my favorite thing in the world was to sit in the bed with my grandfather, Papa, and his big German Shepherd dog, Wolf, and listen to stories he would tell. He would tell the classics like "The Three Little Pigs" and use a different voice for each character. But what I liked best was when he would tell me stories about when he was in the Army and on the beaches of Hawaii, or in the jungles of the Pacific. I would beg for a new story everytime I stayed with him.

One night, he asked me to tell him a story. I wanted to tell him a facinating story that he had never heard. But I was just little girl of 5, what did I know about the world that he didn't? I was looking down, trying desperately to know where to begin, and then I spotted an unusual piece of fabric on the quilt covering the bed. It depicted a woman with a fruit basket on her head. I used that character as my focus, and started out with "Once upon a time..." Everything after that I just made up as I went along. I don't remember anything except that when I was finished, Papa told me that it was about the best story he had ever heard. And the storyteller in me was born! From then on, we would swap stories, and it was almost a competition to see who could come up with the most exciting tale.

When I was about 9 or 10 years old, I branched out into writting poetry. I have written at least 100 different poems, mostly when I was a love sick teen. And my heros were Elizabeth B. Browning, and Edna St. Vincent Milay. In high school, Literature was my favorite class, and I always looked forward to writing assignments. To write a great American novel has been a dream of my ever since I can remember. So, here I am almost 44 years old, and I have yet to accomplish my goal. I'm praying that blogging will be my jump start to my dream.