sunrise morning

it's easter weekend. although it's cool, spring is coming on soon, and i can't be more ready. my thoughts have been living in the past for most of this week for unexplained reasons. possibly, the popping of the pear trees, the azalea blooms warding off the cold, the aroma of spring floating through the air. and i think of mama and daddy and spring in clarkesville.

right around this time of year, i always observed black dots in our pasture. newborns. dropped whenever time came. nothing made daddy prouder than waking me way too early in the morning and squealing to "come" see our newest baby calf. he loved on the mama cow and made sure she was as comfy as possible. and he didn't take his eye off the baby until it was on all fours. he was a good daddy.

on good friday, we always planted our garden. this meant hours in the field, driving the mule, dropping the corn, and complaining a lot. however, i didn't complain months later as i slathered butter on my perfectly formed ears of sweet corn. i strangely forgot about the heat and the dirt. i still try to plant my few tomato plants on good friday, a long way from the ten acres i walked as a child. i thought everyone planted on this exceptional day. if you were southern, you did. occasionally, i forget that everyone is not that lucky.

it was the sunrise service on sunday morning that always tested my faith. rising early on the weekend never made sense to me, but on this weekend, it did. in the middle of a golf course, on the tallest hill around, church members watched the sun squeak over the hill. i grumbled, but that defined my easter. then, daddy and me would rush home. i'd put on my bonnet, my froufrou of a dress and my always too-tight shinny black shoes, and we'd head to church. as i grew older, i sang in the choir - sans froufrou - and it was always the most spectacular song for that morning. after the service, the three of us would then return home where sunday dinner and laughter would season that day and all the ones that would follow.

my rote movements through the years, i'm afraid, have failed my parents and myself for that matter. i still survey pastures this time of year for the arrival of black dots, and i can't help but smile and remember daddy. i try to plant when the weather allows, but i have left behind the sunrise service and songs of resurrection. i can't say why, only that i know it's not as i had intended. i watch, i listen, i inhale the heralds of spring and i remember. i stand amazed at how years change us, how circumstances mold us, and how what we think will never vanish, always does. although my stirrings are quite different than before, the hollows those early traditions carved in my heart remain. there's not a day that goes by that i don't recall from where i came and know that with a little effort and inspiration, i can be back on that tall hill beside daddy watching the sunrise.

at the gettin' store

American Pickers on History Channel yanked at my memory this week. They were pickin' one of many outbuildings that every true Southern old-timer has sitting behind his house (and beside it, and in front of it, etc.), and they came upon something unique. I don't remember the exact item, but the hosts, Frank and Mike, asked, "Where did you get that?" The man lowered his eyes and his chin and said, with all the seriousness he could muster, "At the gettin' store."

I had forgotten that phrase. My daddy had spoken that many times when he had been questioned by this over-eager youngster who marveled at whatever daddy held in his hands. I had drilled him incessantly for the scoop about a what-cha-ma-callit or a thingy-ma-bob. Where did you get this?  Each time his answer remained a carbon copy of the one before. I had never thought to consider that that answer served a single purpose: to shut me up.

My drilling never halted with a single question but continued until I hoped to uncover the location of this utopia. I wanted to see with my own eyes, the treasures, the finds in this gettin' store. Where could it be and why was it hiding? I would continue to interrogate, and by golly, I would wear him down until he would let me climb into the cab of his pea-green Chevy, Doris. We would thunder down to Main Street, and we'd find the parking space dead center of the front door. I would be there. At the gettin' store.

We never took that ride, for usually, something else would grab my attention and I would forget seeing past my own fingertips. It wasn't until we would uncover the next spellbinding trinket that I would become obsessed with that mystical wonderland all over again. My query would echo once more. That store must be great, I thought to myself. I can't wait to go.

On our farm in North Georgia, there was always a chore that had to be done, a machine to fix, a garden to plow, so going didn't always fit into the calendar. Nevertheless, no matter where he went, I would tag along with daddy, always with a curiosity that held endless questions on my lips. Daddy was always patient, never became angry or aggravated with me, and, there would always be an answer.

Answers are a mystery, even to some of life's simple questions. We avoid them, dance around them, skirt them, negate them. But where daddy was concerned, there was always an answer to the eagerness of my life. He made sure of that. And maybe, he wasn't trying to shut me up after all, but rather trying to satisfy an evolving curiosity with an explanation. No matter if his answer included the elusive gettin' store, I always knew I could count on daddy for every answer, every time.

It wasn't the gettin' store, but it was one of the few outings I had with my daddy that wasn't attached to the farm. He was a man of few words, but those words formed the answers to every question I ever raised. I loved my daddy, and he loved me - more than anyone ever has or ever will.