Dad

We had an opportunity this weekend to go up and see my dad's headstone that was recently placed at his graveside. We decided to go over to Woodruff where my dad spent many boyhood years climbing trees, floating down the creek, hiking, exploring, and living. Oh how I wish that I could pull from my memory every story, every detail that he shared with us. He always wanted to go over to Woodruff when we were growing up and show us all the places that meant something to him. He was usually met with an "Oh dad, we don't want to" or "Oh not that story again!" How broken my heart was as I wandered Woodruff and didn't even know any of his favorite exploring places or even which house he grew up in. I know that he was baptized in the creek there. We stopped at the bridge that straddles the creek. I got out of the car. It was quiet, kind of sacred as I looked back into the trees to a little spot where I imagined a little eight-year-old boy being taken into the cold water by his dad. I imagined the boy shaking with cold, but holding tight to his dad's hand knowing that everything would be alright. I imagined his family standing at the waters edge, his mother in front, heart full of gratitude for such a "Heavenly Father's man".

We saw a little building, which I assumed was the schoolhouse and I imagined a boy walking to school with his little sister, wishing that she didn't follow him everywhere he went, but ready to defend at any moment. I imagined a boy who would probably walk down the creek a ways, climb a tree, swing from a tree, float down on a homemade boat and then find a quiet place to pray. I imagined a boy who bet his friend that he could grab the tail of the neighbor's cow. I imagined a boy who explored every cliff, every cave, every trail. A boy who spent his summers waking up early, heading out to explore and then not coming back until dinner, dirty and sunburned. How I wish that he could have been there with me this weekend to tell me every story and I would hold onto those stories, write them into my heart. But it's gone. Every memory gone with him, buried in the soft brown dirt.

I saw this wood burning stove in a little gift shop on our trip. This is very similar to the one we had in the house in SJ. I remember every morning hearing my dad crumple up the newspaper and then hear the fire start to crackle. I always woke up to a warm house.