I was pretty confident the weather would be comfortable when I picked Labor Day Weekend to fly up to Michigan to spend quality time with Dad. At eighty-two years young, he’s doing well. He still drives his John Deere, uses his weed whacker, prunes the trees, and paints the porch. The medication his neurologist has him taking for his Parkinson’s is effective against the tremors in his hands. He’s still able to do a lot of things. His shoulders are stooped, and his steps are slow, but the smile is the same and so is my love. I cherish each minute I still have with him.
“Hello, sweet thing,” he says with a smile as I hoist my bags into the Tahoe. “How was your flight?”
He’s been watching old western re-runs lately, so I knew I’d be taking in some interesting movies. Obvious plot lines and mediocre acting, coupled with old-fashioned hairdos, made the women look decades older than their years. Definitely entertaining, though. The scenery was spectacular, although quite dusty. There was a lot of shootin’, and ridin’, and dyin’ going on. And tons of American tenacity and ingenuity.
Our thing is trying out new restaurants when I travel up to see him. It’s always an adventure. I love that Dad is willing to embrace new experiences at his advanced age. In one restaurant, he couldn’t appreciate the loud music, so he turned down his hearing aid, and that took care of that little annoyance. I told him he should write up a food review and send it to the local newspaper’s editor from each restaurant we discover. He got a good laugh out of that one.
Dad recently got himself his own Jitterbug smartphone and it makes me smile watching him google a you-tube video or send a text. He keeps it in his shirt pocket.
The house Dad built, a raised ranch with a walk-out basement, straddles two one acre lots. One side of the long driveway is flanked with mature maple trees that glow like orange and yellow banners in the fall. I still remember when he planted the young saplings over twenty years ago. Now, their mature canopies cast welcome shade. The back half of the property is now home to a small copse of more maples he had decided about seven years ago to let grow as they sprouted up, struggling to be seen above the unmowed grass. He made up his mind one day to keep the entire two acres manicured, after letting the back portion go native for years. When he discovered the little saplings, he carefully mowed around them. When they had grown to about my height, I took the pruning shears to them shaving off the little suckers growing from the trunks and lopping the low hanging branches.
He now has his own personal park needing only a picnic table and swing-set to complete the pastoral scene.
We walked the perimeter while I was there, and I took pictures of the hickory trees, chicory, sweet peas, goldenrod, day lilies, and queen ann’s lace. It’s all a matter of perspective. I choose and frame one subject, getting in close so all you see is what I want you to see. The big picture is nice, but nothing spectacular. I think you only see the extraordinary beauty when you get up close and focus on one living plant.
God beautifully made each flower and weed and leaf, breathing intricate details only visible when you come near.
I get distracted by large crowds. The cacophonous noise fractures my thinking. But when I single out one person to know, as my camera lens zeroes in on the delicately unfurled petals of blue chicory, I see beauty and am enthralled by its complexity.
Each human being is a work of art. We need to take the time to focus.
