Legacies to Last

Walking – Part 1

/ legaciesletloose / 7 Comments

          To someone who thinks horses should come equipped with seatbelts and to whom a bicycle still needs training wheels, walking is a joy. Peace and fitness, solitude and companionship, moonlight and cool breezes. Let’s walk through almost six decades together and see where it takes us!

          We’ll start in the 1960s, most of which I spent walking the brick sidewalks of Harrisburg, PA. We often visited one set of grandparents a street away. This took us past a corner store, where my brothers and I pressed our noses against the cool glass of the candy case. We placed our nickels on the wooden counter and made our choices. So many scrumptious candies tempted us: marshmallow-topped ice cream cones, colored liquid-filled wax bottles, candy necklaces. We clutched our tiny bags full of delectables and trotted the rest of the way, with a promise of one piece when we got there. That part of the walk always seemed so long; I wonder why ….

          During the 1970s, we spent summer vacations in the mountains of Potter County, PA. Ah, long walks along forest trails … crawling over falle5-7-18n bug-encrusted trees, slipping on moss-covered rocks, brushing spider webs off our faces. But oh, the vistas we reached overlooking valleys and glistening brooks. And my favorite reason to walk the woods–the wildlife: deer flicking their white tails and racing through the hemlocks and grouse taking flight when we startled them. My heart thrills whenever a forest path shows up, even in photos.

          For two years in the 1980s, my husband and I lived in a development on the border of Columbus, OH. Evening strolls around our neighborhood or one of the metro parks became our lifeline to sanity. We walked our cares away, holding hands, straining to ignore the hustle, focusing on the moment … or was that holding our dog’s leash in both hands, straining to keep her from chasing the numerous squirrels teasing her, fo5-7-18 Bcusing on keeping her from dropping “presents” in anyone’s yard?

          The trail in our favorite metro park bordered Ripple Rock Creek. While walking these parks built within the city limits, we could forget we lived so near downtown. We couldn’t hear the noise of the highway. The creek, named for its rippled rocks, filled our country-loving souls with a sense of home. We even brought one of the rocks back with us as a reminder of this little place of peace.

 ***We’ll have to continue our journeys next week, but for now, where have your walks taken you? Please take us along on one … or more! To leave your story, click on the words beside the date under the title of this post. Then, scroll to the bottom of the comment section to find the box with the heading, “Leave a reply.” Thank you for sharing!

 *** Next Monday we’ll see how the onset of serious health issues almost destroyed my joys of walking. Join me and see what we found on another walk—a bear hunt!

Green

/ legaciesletloose / 12 Comments

Green - Copy

          Green. The color green. Some see waving grass, towering evergreens; others a wallet filled with money. And a few think of emeralds or jade.

          Although I love God’s creations of grass and trees, when someone mentions the color green, I think of spaghetti and my niece Stephanie.

          While in her teens, Steph decided to try making spaghetti sauce from scratch. She put tomato sauce, garlic, and other seasonings in a pot. However, while adding the latter, the shaker top of the oregano container popped off and a half cup dumped into the sauce. She tried fishing some out, but the sauce still ended up quite green and a tad bitter as her father testified later.

          For fun one day soon after this catastrophe, when Steph joined us for supper, I made spaghetti, but when boiling the pasta, I added several drops of green food coloring. (Try it! It’s fun! We’ve even tried blue and orange.) The noodles turned a lovely shade of velvety green.

          Steph laughed when she saw her plate and said it looked very Christmas-y with the red sauce on it. We grabbed a Santa cap, stuffed it on Steph’s head, and told her to hold the plate of green and red spaghetti and pose for a picture.

          “Tilt the plate a little,” my husband said, holding the camera.

          “Like this?” Steph replied and turned the plate completely vertical. The spaghetti slid off the plate, sloshing to the floor. Silence filled the room, as we watched spaghetti noodles and sauce pool on the floor, seep between the cracks in the vinyl chair seats, and run in red streaks down the cupboard doors. Steph stood with the empty plate in her hand and looked from her cousins to me to her uncle.

          We all held our breath, sure we’d hear a roar. (Sometimes, my husband doesn’t appreciate messes!) But soon, a laugh started, followed by girlish giggles. Then we all howled until our sides hurt. Eventually, we cleaned up the spaghetti, but the memory of that laughter has lasted much longer than the chairs with the spaghetti sauce stains.

          I like to think about what Jesus would have done had He been sitting at our table. I feel certain I know.

 *** To share your favorite “green” story with us, click on the words beside the date on the line below the title to this post. Then scroll down past the other comments to find a box at the bottom with the line, “Leave a Reply.” I’m excited to read your stories!

 *** Stop by next Monday to read how coffee became synonymous with love for me!

Mud

/ legaciesletloose / 21 Comments

Mud. No other word draws all five senses together in such a short moment. See it ooze between tiny toes. Hear it squish as bare feet smush into it. Feel it cool and grainy, wet and slippery. Smell its fresh-after-the-rain fragrance. And taste? Why, mud pies, of course, fed to unsuspecting kid brothers and ever-loyal canine companions.

Mud - Copy

            To me, mud tastes like a tomato sandwich, slathered with butter and coated with sugar. The problem began with the fact that this delicious concoction never filled my stomach without a second helping.

            One sunny afternoon, as most teens are wont to do, I lazed in my backyard while eating my first tomato sandwich of the season. The fresh tomato juices mixed with the creamy butter and slid down my throat. The grass, sparkling in the sun, needed mowed with all the rain we’d had recently. Dad would get to it over the weekend, but for now, it soaked through my canvas sneakers as I pushed the swing to and fro.

            Suddenly, the desire for another sandwich, the tomato juicy and the sugar thick enough to chew, beckoned, and with a holler to my mom to please start making one, I ran for the house. In my eagerness, I forgot about the constant mud by the door. My wet sneakers didn’t allow me to slow down, and I slid the last several feet, trying frantically to stop. I did stop, after I crashed through the plate glass storm door into the kitchen. I lay there, sprawled on the kitchen floor, while glass cascaded around and over me. I picked myself up, dazed but miraculously unharmed except a few knicks on my arms.

            Mud. What scenes does it pull from memories long-buried? Maybe a free-for-all mud fight in a neighborhood park. Could be a tire stuck in six inches, getting deeper with each rev of the engine. Or how about rain splashing in a blessed puddle after a long drought. See it, hear it, feel it, smell it, and if you dare, taste it.

            When our senses tingle from an experience, we feel alive. We have a concrete relationship with the event. Maybe this thought caused Jesus to choose to use mud when He healed the blind man, even though He needed nothing to create this miracle. Mud – I can feel it; can you?

 Share your “muddy” story with us in the comments below.