Family Picnic for my dad, home on furlough from the WWII, before he was off to Europe. 1944, nine years before I was born. My mom is in the picture, but she and dad weren’t married until he returned from the war. If I could bring them all back I would. Might they be looking down on me and wondering, what I will do next? I’ll never know, and they will never be able to tell me if they think I’m doing the right thing or not. I only have to go by what they taught me and trust their judgement when they were alive. In this way they aren’t really gone at least in my heart and mind.
There are gifts that stay with you, for as long as you live. I still remember the surprise I felt for dolls I unwrapped for Christmas. Will never forget when my brother and his girlfriend showered me with small gifts for my golden birthday. There was a colorful piggy bank, wicker nested suitcases, and candy sticks with stripes.
Many special gifts color my memory, in time. Last year, someone surprised me with a picture of flowers on Mother’s Day. Here they are!
Made a journey down a winding road, to see an old friend, and a dog named Luna. Near the ocean we stayed, watching the waves, come and go.
On the morning walk with the dogs at the beach, the tilting fence glistened in the sun, with sand at her feet, and budding rose bushes of the dunes scattered round.
Time was approaching the hustle and bustle of beachgoers.
The afternoon sun beat down, where the children frolicked at the shore, with mother and father at their sides. They built castles in the sand, unfettered by the rough play of canines of the early morn.
What was Luna thinking, as she lay at home?
Luna spent the day, dreaming of her four legged friends, from whom she would steal balls and sticks, and of how they rolled raucously in the sand.
Then a swim!
Daybreak returned and Mother Nature called Luna back out to play. Alone she could not go, so she got up and wagged her tail, and sniffed and licked the sleepy face of my friend, to start another day, all over again.
When my son was a little boy, I thought I had to teach him how to fish, because every boy needs to know this. I knew nothing about the sport, but I went out anyway, and bought fishing equipment for our next big camping trip. Upon arrival, at dusk, in Maine somewhere, out to the dock we went. With his nifty fishing hat, dungaree vest, and fishing poll in hand, I told him to stand at the end of the dock, and cast the line. The next thing I knew, he had fallen into the lake, not sure how. I hope he learned a lesson, and that this is not the last time, he will ever fish.
St. Paul’s Cathedral in St. Paul, Minnesota, sits high on a hill, and looms over the city landscape. In the distance, one can see the the State Capital, which is made of a more luminescent white stone.
The Cathedral is on Summit Avenue, the elegant street of St. Paul, where F. Scott Fitzgerald frequented many a home for social occasions. At one address, he apparently wrote his first novel, “This Side of Paradise”. Summit is lined with an array of architectural dreams come true for the wealthy, who moved to St. Paul in the 19th century. Some homes are more elegant in their beauty, than others. Adjacent to the Cathedral is the Mansion of James J. Hill, one of the most powerful men in the country, whose wealth was acquired through the railroad business. He and J.P. Morgan created an empire, and subjugated the worker to such meager wages, that Teddy Roosevelt took the matter into his hands, and shut them down, or so the story goes. Photographs of the Hill Mansion will follow.
Let it be said, however, that Mrs. Hill, an industrious, highly organized housewife, and fervent Catholic, felt right at home with the Cathedral in plain view, sitting outside her front door. True to the Catholic tradition, she and James grew a large family, of ten children, and today, there are still many heirs to the family wealth.
On a personal note, this is the first time I stepped foot into the Cathedral, although, as a child, I remember marveling at it’s grandeur every time our family went into the Twin Cities, to visit Uncle Johnny and Aunt Betty. Until now, it was always a fantasy vision, which took me to fictional places in my mind. It reminded me of a palace, where a wizard would live, and if you ever got the chance to visit, he would give you anything you wanted, and make your dreams come true.
Sometimes biting in to a bad chocolate, and eating it, is like adopting a broken friend, and never giving up on him, or her.
When everything seems hopeless, browse for that inner voice calling your own name. You are not alone.
There seems to be a cosmic conscience of alter egos, in the universe. It appears like a wave from the ocean, or a gust of wind, out of the clear blue sky. It can be strong and persistent, only to subside, and return again.
Synthesis is needed in life, for it to have meaning.
I keep putting this up and putting it down. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s denial. It’s hard to believe he would be 100 years old, and that I am still alive to be able to know this fact.
This is my dad’s way of thinking, per my brother. In a nutshell, my dad wrote to him after a huge fight, that lasted a whole day; “We all have our ups and downs, differences of opinion and happy times. In those bad times, when we know that the issue is not as important as the relationship, we should forget the differences and move on. He said that he can accomplish that by writing down his feelings or opinion and delivering that in the form of the written word. It is less passionate, is likely to be less vehement and with much more consideration of the other person.”