Today is Sandy’s birthday. If it’s a pretty day, I’m sure we’ll spend part of it at the beach. We got some shopping done for her yesterday but need to finish this afternoon. Going out tonight. Should be a good day.
Jeff took this picture yesterday just outside Tommy Bahama’s at Sandestin.
If you’d like to see one of the benefits of goo foffing, here are a couple of examples of the results.
This is probably a good prompt. Mayb it will inspir som of you pots to writ somthing cut and clvr.
Jeff flew home to be with us at Jule’s visitation last night. It rained hard all morning and into the afternoon. As the two of us stood in the living room staring out at the rain we noticed that the original pair of mated toads in the pool had drowned and a new one was struggling to stay alive.
It was raining and we talked about what a pity it was that the toads can hop into the pool but can’t get out.
It was raining as Jeff kicked off his shoes, picked up an umbrella, and headed out to the pool.
It was raining when he rescued the remaining toad with a leaf scooper and carried it down the steps to safety, and then returned to lift out the two small bodies and set them on the grass.
Jeff put the leaf scooper away, shook the umbrella outside the door, and stepped inside to wipe his feet. Job well done, Son.
Our son Jeff Harrison pulled this poem from the files. I wrote it about Sandy’s father, Ralph Kennon, after he died. One day Sandy and I cleaned out her dad’s clothes closet, a sad task, but the act stirred many pleasant memories and the poem grew from them. I offer it here today because I’ve enjoyed thinking back to all those good times and want to share this glimpse into a fine man and his life.
The Gift
I fold his clothes,
recognizing some,
like old acquaintances
not met for a while
that recall stories of the man.
Checking jacket pockets,
my hand pulls out a program:
Westminster Presbyterian, 1996.
They spent most Sundays cooking,
bringing food to share,
left little time to collect
church programs.
This pocket yields a wrapper,
the candy sucked, I’m guessing,
as he crossed a parking lot
keys in hand.
The toothpick’s in here too.
This paperclip? Easy.
Bet he went to the bank that day,
took a deposit, kept the clip.
Waste not want not he’d say.
Black comb, hip pocket.
He had such beautiful hair:
thick, wavy, bright white.
She liked to comb it.
He liked that too.
A man of routine, keeper of receipts,
planner of pool shots,
pitcher of pennies;
ate out on Tuesday,
bowled on Friday,
attended high school reunions.
Organized his clothes front to back,
newest by the door transitioning
by age in a slow march toward the rear.
These pants at the back say garden.
I can see him there,
behind the garage,
tilling his beloved soil,
scooping out rows
like doodlebug holes,
dripping in seeds,
soaking with that old green hose,
intent on the joys
of working alone in the sun.
I fold his clothes,
fill boxes, make lists.
They’re just clothes, really,
without the man.
Whoever gets them
won’t get the stories.
I kept nothing when he died
but now I know
I’ll keep these stories
like books from a library
checked out to cherish again.
Life records it memories.
I fold his clothes
and give thanks.
(C) David L. Harrison, all rights reserved
