Dec 4, 2016

Remembering the basics in this wonderful country

I don't do a lot of hiking anymore. Not that I was ever an avid hiker in the first place, it's just that well, I dunno, maybe the ole' body is slowing down. And, well maybe my lederhosen got too tight and started givin' me a wedgy.

Regardless, Pattye and I hiked last week while we were touring Oklahoma and visiting with Ben, Kass and the boys as well as Norm and Jana over Thanksgiving.


One of the places we visited was Turner Falls, Oklahoma, a place I hadn't seen in almost 50 years when I made my first trip south from Norman, Oklahoma down to Dallas. Back then Interstate 35 wasn't completely finished down through the Arbuckle Mountains where Turner Falls is located. As you cruised south on Highway 77, you were forced to slow down to about 10 MPH as you navigated hairpin turns through the foothills... The road hasn't changed much in those 50 years and "The Falls" are as beautiful as they were once before.

Something that has been added is a zip line that stretches across the canyon for 777 feet. Something that I might have tried ridin' back in the day, but now I just enjoy watching others ride it.


Another stop during our 4 day getaway was circumnavigating Lake Murray in Ardmore, Oklahoma, only a few miles from the grandboys house. This gorgeous lake has 67 miles of primitive shoreline nestled in the middle of Lake Murray State Park.

I have probably driven past Lake Murray more than 100 times as I have journeyed from Dallas to Oklahoma City or Norman during these last 50 years. Although the lake is only but a mile or two off the highway, it can't be seen from the highway. So for all of those years I missed a truly magnificent body of water.

This man-made lake is a tribute to one of the greatest accomplishments in bringing America out of the Depression. The lake and State Park was built by young men of the Civilian Conservation Corp and organized through the Works Progress Administration.


There's a wonderful display at the lake detailing with documents and pictures the efforts of the young men who built this State Park as well as hundreds of State Parks and National Parks around the country.

If any of you have ever set foot on a trail in any State Park or National Park, you have no doubt walked in the footsteps of these same people.

The peacefulness of the lake and seeing the results of these young men gave me cause to think how wonderful it would be if the youth of this nation, the ones who are "lost" with no direction, or "confused" as to what their next chapter might be or who may want some type of direction...if they had an opportunity to earn self respect and at the same time giving back to this wonderful country...how it might serve many purposes.

Anyway, the time to reflect did me a lot of good, plus it got the ole' bones a workin' again.

Too often, I've taken for granted many of the things that make this country great. One is simply nature.

So now I challenge myself and any others who happen to be reading this musing. Let's shut down our "devices" sometime this coming year and get outdoors and do ourselves some good.

Breathe it all in, while the air is still fresh and be thankful for what we have and what we could do if we made the effort.

Oct 28, 2016

It's all about the journey....umm kinda

I've been working around water professionally for over 25 years ever since Pattye and I started Blue Sky Pools back in 1989. I've seen thousand of pools from simple little wading pools to mind-blowing $200,000 two and three tiered vanishing edge pools.

I've seen  thousands of ponds with elaborate lighting features and waterfalls that give you the illusion you are in the  middle of the Amazon.

Even our side yard, which often times for most people, is an unused piece of property, is a series of waterfalls and catch basins with beautiful goldfish swimming lazily year round. You can see some of it here. Pond

All this being said, I wanted to start adding even more water features and designs.

I've seen flowing-water urns before and I even recently joined Pinterest to find out as much as I could to start developing my own design. And even provide friends and consumers with simple DIY instructions.

I've made about 10 visits to Home Depot and Loews in the last two weeks. I've gathered parts and pieces, tried different flowing techniques, looked at different pieces of pottery.

I did everything right until yesterday.

I had finally found a way to get a perfect tight seal on our newly purchased ($125.00) urn. One that stood about 3 feet tall. I changed pump sizes to get even a higher flowing fountain. Everything was right. UNTIL...I tried to make a few changes and center the urn and level it just a little bit more.

It fell. It broke. I was mad, sad, pissed, and kinda broken just like that dang pot. I should have emptied it before I moved it. Yep, my bad.

I'll start over again. I've learned more about hydraulics in the past week than I really needed. But things will be fine....

I just had to remember...It's all about the journey...not the destination.


Oct 23, 2016

It's only work if you don't enjoy it

I'm sure all of us, at least I hope so, have worked at a paying job sometime in our lives. I mean something a little more than the babysitting or throwing newspapers. I think most of us have had that business experience in life.

Now, however, before I get started, I'm simply going to honor all  all of the women who went directly from high school or college and began raising a family. All of us know there is NO OTHER harder work than being a mom. As a mom, and sometimes a dad, you have to be a doctor, lawyer, cook, storyteller, chauffeur, and well, just about everything in the world and you get no monetary compensation.

So, that being said...my story today is about the long list of exciting, demanding, unbelievable and frustrating jobs I've had over the years.

I guess my first real paying job was sweeping the floor at Leo's Barber Shop down on Riverside Drive in Dayton, Ohio. I got down there after dinner at my house, which was just up the street,  right after the barbershop had closed. It was a three-chair operation and served pretty much the entire neighborhood.

I probably made a dollar or two for the week plus I got a free haircut. Plus I got to spin around in the chairs after closing and of course pump them up as high as I could get them and then release them rapidly. Also, playing with the shaving cream dispenser and carefully, very carefully, sending that straight razor back and forth across the razor strap was also a thrill.

Later on in high school as I advanced up the working chain, I found myself after high school.working in a field that I thought my prove to be a entry level position in the medical field. It wasn't

I had a connection at a clinic downtown across the street from Miami Valley Hospital, which ironically was where I was born. My aunt was the Office Manager for a group of Ophthalmologists in the building which also housed several Internists.

That group of Physicians had a lab down in the basement where all of the blood and urine tests were handled for the doctors.

My job after school was having the responsibility of getting all of those urine bottles all sparkly clean for the next day.And of course, the bottles remained full of the specimen in case a test had to be done over. Uh-huh..Thirty of forty bottles each day waited for me. In all shades of yellow, chartreuse and an occasional light brown color. If I was lucky, there might have been a left over stool specimen container that had to be cleaned as well. That job lasted for two years. That my friend was a memorable experience.

In college, I worked doing everything from being desk clerk at a Howard Johnsons, , a busboy at a Holiday Inn, A chauffeur for a quadriplegic, who was a very successful business man which later evolved into  meeting and becoming friends with Jim Brady, President Reagen's Press Secretary, who was shot along with Reagen.


And another fun job of working in the kitchen and serving food at the State Mental Hospital in Norman, Oklahoma. You never knew what to expect each night at dinner time as the patients shuffled through the line. Sometimes the men women would flash you, growl at you, stare at you or even try to slip you a note telling you there were being held against their will...duh.

Anyway, the list goes on and on. Everything  from being  a stringer for the Air Force Times, a newspaper editor as well as a reporter.

And of course, the experience of working for Chuck Norris, as his property manager for 18 years.

Later on  Pattye and I would start a  successful swimming pool service business some 27 years ago.

Just a few memories on this Sunday morning.

I have loved working. I still work and I hope I never lose the enthusiasm.






Oct 20, 2016

The Wonderful Memories of the Neiman Marcus Christmas Catalog

Yep, kiddies...believe it or not it’s only 9 weeks until Christmas. But you probably already knew it was getting close since Home Depot and Walmart have all of their Christmas decorations up in their respective stores.

But around the Kender household in Dayton, Ohio when I was a lil' Skeeter boy growing up, the first sign that Christmas was near was the arrival of the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalog. The holy grail of catalog shopping.
Click to view the Christmas catalog online

I'm not sure how we ever got on the mailing list. Mom certainly never ordered anything from the beautiful magazine. Even still, it arrived every October. And it was just pure magic. I did my best to leaf thru each page and try to act like I was interested in the clothes and furniture stuff....I didn't know the term Home Accessories at that time, all I wanted to see were the His and Hers gifts that only a gazillionaire could afford.

And now, the 2016 edition is online in its full dreamy world.

I remember one of the things we did when I came to Dallas for the first time with my mom and dad. It was 1965, and my niece, Kimberly, was born in Waco and we drove down from Dayton to see her as well as my brother, Dave, and his wife. We spent the night in Dallas and stayed at the Holiday Inn near downtown. The next day we walked through the famous store and were dazzled by the beautiful items. Little did I know I would move here 13 years later.

Anyway, back to the catalog.  

I was always very careful turning the pages because I knew this was something I would treasure until a few days before Christmas hoping that maybe, just maybe, I might get one of those special gifts. Maybe a ride in an Indy car or my own airplane.

It wasn't like I was living out in the sticks. We had a wonderful department store, Rike's, in Dayton, but this was Neiman's. The best of the best.

I can remember His and Hers boats. His and Hers cars. His and Hers trips. His and Hers jewelry. His and Hers helicopters.It was exciting...but then when I saw the prices!....wow...now that was some Christmas present.

So once again. I fell into my dreamy world when I looked at the catalog this year. A lot has changed. You can view it online.  You can have your gifts delivered overnight. And, yep, you can dream about that "special" gift. How about a trip for two to the Grammy Awards for just a mere $500,000.  Time to dream...and shop.... 

Jun 19, 2016

One of my Dad's saddest and proudest moments with me

I grew up in the "old school" of affection with my parents. Mom and Dad both loved me but with Dad it wasn't ever that warm hug or even that tousling of my hair or giving that "fake punch". It wasn't done back then, I don't think. Maybe it was but I usually didn't see it in my friends homes either.

Dad just worked.  He worked hard. He left early before I got up and came home at dinner time.

One of his great joys was certainly baseball and he coached, managed and sponsored baseball teams for all three of his sons and many of my friends today had a chance to play for Dad. My friend for 58 years, Eddie Stout, often tells a story of  Dad's care and concern for the kids on the baseball team. 


As I mentioned earlier, Dad was always loving but never emotional "touchy" loving. I guess it was the times or maybe how he grew up.

There was one exception.

When I was at the University of Oklahoma, I invited Dad to come to the annual Father's Day weekend. He couldn't have been prouder.

Most of my fraternity brothers were all from the Southwest, either Texas or Oklahoma, and here my "Yankee" Dad shows up from Dayton, Ohio. But Dad had that infectious personality that immediately bridged the Mason-Dixon line and Dad was welcomed by all. He was made an honorary "Okie" and wore the little lapel pin that was given to him proclaiming his new title.

 He beamed with pride all weekend and I felt a pride that I never knew I had for him as he blended in so well. When he left to fly back to Dayton, we hugged and maybe for the first time we said, "I Love You" to each other. We had never said that before.

The next year, he returned for Father's Day. He was excited. He wore his Okie Pin and immediately began renewing friendships with the fathers he had met the previous year.

But this year would be different. 

I had decided to work as a "houseboy" at the fraternity house my sophomore year to help offset the cost my parents spent for me to go to college. Neither my Dad nor Mom knew I was doing it.

When it came time to have dinner at the house on Friday night, I told Dad that I had to work and help serve meals. He didn't understand. I told him it was okay and I was just trying to help pay my way and several of us were working and their Dads were here for the weekend as well.

His eyes teared up and  he felt so sad that I had to work for a few hours that evening....but always the proudest and kindest man...and as my fraternity brothers and their Dad's filed into the dining hall, here was my Dad, sleeves rolled up, an apron on, and he and his son, his proud son, served the meals together.

After we finished for the evening and joined the rest of the group. We did the handshake and a slight hug. When he left at the end of the weekend. He simply said, "I'm proud of you and love you". I think it was his happiest moment with me and probably now just the second time we had said that.

I wish I could tell him now that simple simple phrase of..... "I love You, Dad".


May 17, 2016

May flowers bring tears in many ways



As the May flowers just begin to slightly open their buds and release the powerful fragrance in the air, my eyes begin to tear...both from the allergens produced by the beautiful creations but also from the memories of my mother's own tears.


It seems like our backyard on Sandhurtst Drive in Dayton, Ohio always seemed to be the scene of some kind of escapade the caused my sainted mom to just shake her head and try to smile as her Little Skeeter boy caused  yet another reason for the moist twinkles in her blue eyes. The backyard was where we dug up our dead dog, where we ran around all nekked around the tent after losing playing strip poker and where I cut off all of the branches of my mom's favorite red bud tree. It was also the site  of mom's peony bushes that separated our yard from our neighbor behind us.


Having recently acquired slingshots from Northtown Sporting Goods "The Jer" and I were looking for some more ammunition since we had spent most of the rocks and pebbles we could find in the street. We shot at everything including each other. The rocks always hurt so as we looked to find a less lethal projectile, ...we spotted mom's peony bushes.


I never thought much of flowers or bushes back in those days and heck, how could anything called pee-o-knee mean anything special. We even laughed at the silly name, never really giving any thought to how beautiful the flowers would be until decades and decades later.


So we descended on the peonies like locusts on fresh crops and began to stuff our pockets pulling each bud off the stem with the perfectly formed spheres. The buds that were slightly opened made for the best "bullets" because as they hit their targets they would explode with juices, tiny flowerettes and an aroma.


I guess mom came outside either because she heard the excitement or laughter and felt like perhaps we were up to something once again.


She saw the remains of all of the buds from her more than ten peony bushes scattered around the yard and the helpless naked stems each standing bare on the bush.
A few tears began to flow, she shook her head slightly back and forth, she reached out to me and said, "Tommy, one day you will remember what you did here. It will make you sad, but at least it will help you remember me".


She was right. I'm sad for destroying mom's favorite flowers and that brings me tears but I am happy that she loved me and understood me.  And that brings tears as well as I do remember my mom and her love and patience with her little Tommy boy.


May 6, 2016

Our Grandmothers are also Special on Mother's Day



Grandmas, G-Maws, Nanas, or Grandmothers... whatever you call them...they are special. And on Mother’s Day, it too is their special day.
Although I never had a chance to know either of my grandfathers, I did get to spend a little time with both my grandmothers before they left this earth. 

One grandmother, my Dad’s mother, I’ve written about before in a previous blog.. http://ireadthenews.blogspot.com/2011/11/over-river-and-thru-woods-to-grandmas.html .

 We didn’t talk much since she didn’t speak a word of English. She owned a bar over on the West Side of Dayton, Ohio and every weekend Dad and I would drive over to the bar and I would watch while sitting on my perch on a bar stool drinking my “Roy Rodgers” as Dad slipped her a wad of cash to help her along the way. 

She later came to live with us, which was the normal thing to do back in those days. Heck, I don’t even think nursing homes had even been invented yet. Parents came and lived with their sons and daughters until they failed to wake up the next morning.
My Mom’s, mom, we all called Nana. She was a little feisty, and lived with my Aunt Bab’m, a nickname for my Mom’s sister. They lived together in a small, white frame house only a few houses away from my childhood friend, “The Jer”, who I have also written about many times. Aunt Bab’m and “The Jer” got along well enough but Bab’m always would say to “The Jer”, “ I’ve got your number, buddy”, and “The Jer” would just kind of shy away. Bab’m would smile and give him a hug. 
Me and Nana fishing at Grand Lake in Celina, Ohio

Nana didn’t do much except sit and knit, at least when I knew her. She grew up in what I always thought was a mansion at the corner of Ridge  Ave and Main Street next to Winters Bank that served as both their residence and a funeral home, at least I think that is the story. 

My Dad moonlighted as a undertaker there in order to get a chance to spend more time with mom, his future bride. One of the stories that is now fractured by the test of time is that Nana had some relatives named Okla and Homa, named after the great state where I would later attend college. Also, there was a story that Mom was named after a small town north of Lubbock, Tx. called Idalou where some other relative drove cattle....who knows, but I like to tell it . 

About the only memory of Nana away from the house was the occasional trips to Grand Lake north of Dayton. Nana taught me to cast my fishing rod and untangle the bird’s nest I often ended up with my casting reel.  She also was the one who encouraged Dad to let me have a casting rod and reel and not a kid’s ole’ bamboo pole. She also taught me to bait my hooks and how to hold a catfish without getting gorged  by a horn.
It’s funny how now after more than 60 some years I remember those times. It makes me appreciate Mother’s Day a heck of a lot more and makes me smile as I remember growing up.

Apr 22, 2016

Make it your story, make it your song

Early in my professional writing career, I was assigned the task of writing a feature story about the residents of the Soldiers and Sailors Home in Baltimore, Maryland.
This Soldiers Home in Dayton, Ohio is
 one of many across the United States.

After several hours of touring the grounds and interviewing dozens of aging members of "The Greatest Generation" as some of them rocked in unison on the veranda outside their home, I went back to my motel room and wrote and rewrote throughout the night.

I returned home the next day with what I thought was to-date, one of my finest pieces yet in my new career. I anxiously went to the office and submitted the story to my editor and waited as he read through the pages and then casually he tossed my blood, sweat and tears on my desk and declared, "Kender, I have every one of these words in a book in my office, who the hell are you trying to fool."

My jaw dropped, my heart sank and my body went cold...how could that be, these were my words, my thoughts, my magic that I transposed to the paper.

He saw my bewildered look and a broad smile bloomed across his round face.

"I've been waiting to pull that on you", he said, " IT'S THE DICTIONARY, you rookie. All of those words are in my dictionary!", he shouted.

It's a sight and sound I keep with me always.

With the passing of "Prince"  and the way he always wanted to do it his way and the recent passing of other great artists, both musicians and authors, I'm reminded of how I evolved from putting words on paper to putting feelings on paper. Words are just words in the dictionary. What turns them into great stories, epics, into masterpieces, is simply the order in which they appear. I'm no where close to ever having anything of that magnitude come from my mind or soul but it does help me realize the brilliance of gifted people.

A piano is like a dictionary for music. There are 88 keys all laid out in the same continuous pattern from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs. But one note can have two different names.  "G" sharp is the same as  "A" flat yet it is the same note and sounds the same. What makes it unique is how it is played in sequence to all of the other notes.

Which brings me to the conclusion of this conversation with myself.

We all have a gift. We all have the same resources available to us. Now, all we have to do is put the words, put the notes in the right order. Not other people's order, but your order. Tell your story. Sing your song.


Mar 19, 2016

Saturdays with "The Jer"

Every day with “The Jer”, my best friend and the architect who would design my mind  during my young formative years, was an adventure, but Saturdays, now that day was special.


 Depending on the time of year and the weather we would have a half dozen choices of what we could get into  or out of for that matter. We always had to get started early because regardless of what we did bright and early on Saturday, we always had to get to the Ames Theater for kid’s Saturday movies that started around ten in the morning.


The Jer on the right with his dad and older brother, Denny

 March, in Dayton, Ohio, our hometown, still meant cold and blustery days but we would have an occasional warm day or two that allowed us to get outside and that meant exploring the neighborhood.


 Like many small towns across the country, you either had an alley behind your house or not. My street, Sandhurst Drive, ran from Main Street, east to Riverside Drive, but no alley. So it wasn’t uncommon whenever we were making our trek through the neighborhoods, we would walk thru the back yards of all of the houses to get to our destination. Something that today, would probably get you shot or at the least arrested for trespassing.


 We would pack up our supplies that “The Jer” and I kept in nifty leather pouches we found on another one of our scheduled adventure days, Trash Day. But, I’ll save our Trash Day exploits for another time.


 Our personal stash consisted of any cigs that we appropriated from our parents cigarette pack and an occasional butt we would sneak out of the ash traay. Dad smoked unfiltered Camels, and for a boy of about 8 or 9, you knew right then whether you really wanted to smoke or not…Sadly, I decided yes…one of the few regrets I have ever had in my life. Mom, on the other hand, smoked Salems, which tasted as bad as the Camels but from the other end of the spectrum.


 We also carried a handful of Pecan Sandies. These were kind of a short cake type cookie with pecan pieces in the dough. “The Jer” brought those. I brought Oreos. Sometimes when I would trade an Oreo for one of “The Jer’s cookies, I would scrape off the icing first with my front teeth with him not seeing me and try to pass the icing-less treat off to him. He always spotted it and threw it at me. Both of us laughing, but me still trying to sneak one by him each week.


 “The Jer” also had a red Swiss army knife with about a gazillion different attachments to pick from including a knife, fork, spoon and a leather punch, which I don’t think we ever used.


 The last item “The Jer” always carried with him were kitchen matches. They fascinated both him and me and I guess they still do kinda to this day. We made gun matches out of clothespins that would  light and shoot  the kitchen matches at each other. We would break off the tips of the matches and put them all in a pile and toss in a lighted match that would burst the pile into flames. And, of course, there was the time “The Jer” had two of them rub together and set fire inside his pocket. He screamed like hell and layed in a mud puddle to put the fire out.


 We would leave my house at daybreak, after he showed up at my window, and letting me know he had arrived, by making our secret hoot owl call of Hoo, Hoo, Hoo repeated three times. By the third Hoot, I was already out the door.


 We would start off by hiking over the 2 foot rock wall that separated our yard from our next door neighbors. Looking back. our next door neighbors, the Norrises, had to have been the most wonderful people in the world. Never once, at least that I am aware of,  did they ever complain about anything that happened in the Kender house. Or maybe they were just terrified. They weren’t like the people who lived behind us, who called the police one time because the lady of the house saw me running around naked after losing a hand of strip poker that we were playing in our tent in the backyard. Heck, I was only  a kid. I remember when the detectives came to the house   I could see them giggling while asking me why I was all nekked.


 We would wind our way through the yards. Knowing which ones had dogs and which ones had owners that would yell at us. About half way up towards Main Street was one yard that had an item that we always coveted. It was a piece of quartz molded into a small rock wall. We would always stop to look at it. We may have been a lot of things back in those days, but we were never thieves. We loved to look at the beautiful stone, but we would never take it.


 
By the time we got to the end of our outbound trek we knew we had to be heading home in order to get to the movies. We’d share one of the smokes we had. Of course, inhaling and then blowing smoke rings and then we would walk down the street looking in the gutters with the hopes of finding a good cigarette butt that we would add to our collection.

Yep, Exploring Day, was one of my favorites.

Mar 9, 2016

In search of “The Jer”



I needed to bring closure. I needed to bring all of the wondering and not knowing to an end.  But sadly, in my heart I already knew the answer; it was in my head where I feared the unknown.

 If he had already passed, maybe I could breathe life into my friend’s soul through my stories about growing up together and give him a new beginning.  I dreaded what I knew would be the outcome of my inquiries.


 My mind was a whirlwind of emotions as I prepared to find the fate of my childhood companion. My best friend I hadn’t seen in over 50 years.


“The Jer” taught me everything that a young boy needed to begin his life adventure.
He taught me to spit and cuss by the time I was eight. He taught me to smoke and drink by the age of twelve.
"The Jer"


 He taught me to be fearless as we began each summer, building a raft from fallen trees along the Stillwater River. Our destination was always the same. Navigate to the Miami River, find a way to cross the spillway at Helena Street. Connect to the Ohio River and then on to the ocean, any ocean. We never got further than 100 feet from shore before every raft sank.


 He was my Don Quixote, I was his Sancho Panza. 


 “The Jer” taught me to be an adventurer, to take risks when needed and maybe even sometimes just for the heck of it.


But “The Jer” wasn’t just showing off. He was proving to himself he could challenge any gauntlet thrown before him.
 I had pledged to some

 mutual friends that I would learn the fate of my best friend. I would ask the hard questions that needed to be asked. Was he dead? How did he die? Was he alone when he died?

 I was able to find his older brother, Denny, thru social media and asked if I could call him and talk about “The Jer”. He enthusiastically replied and shared hours of stories and information including the news that made me cry later.. He was gone forever.

I learned “The Jer” was a veteran of the Vietnam War and what he witnessed there as a machine-gunner risking his life each day caused him to become a troubled soul. Periods of off and on abuse brought his demise way too soon.


 He wasn’t alone when he died, he was with people who understood his pain, his fellow soldiers at the VA hospital.


 “My Jer” lives within me now. Our stories will be your stories.


  I’m thankful I made the search.
  

Jan 27, 2016

The Redbud Tree

Moms and their love for their little boys. That unexplained bond that transcends all sensible reasoning.  A bond that requires few if any words to communicate to each other their own wants or needs.


  But sometimes, words are needed for direction, for reassurance, for not only explaining how to  get the job done, but getting it done right.  But little boys sometimes only hear what they want to hear, a trait that often stays with them even into adulthood.


 My Mom planted a redbud tree in our backyard soon after I was born to, I guess, remind her of my birth. She should have known better after already raising two other boys, that I would be reminding her daily that I was there   


 As the redbud tree grew, so did I.  It’s branches  starting to spread and grow tall, much like my gangly arms and legs. Mom would tend to the tree as needed pruning here, nipping there as if she were shaping the tree much like she was helping shape the future for her little boy.


 Mom asked if I would go outside and cut up the branches she had painstakingly removed and laid aside for disposal. Eager to please I jumped at the occasion and hurried outside to complete the task and bask in her radiant smile. But  little boys vocabularies are underdeveloped much like their little brains. And words they hear aren’t the words spoken.

 Such was the case.


 I hurried outside grabbing a saw and axe from the garage along the way and headed for the prized redbud. I kicked some discarded dead branches laying  near  the base of the tree as I busily started to hack and cut the flowering branches before me.

I  guess Mom must have sensed the force in the universe that occurs when the mom/child relationship  starts to wobble on its axis.
 She came outside to check on her young saplings, me and the tree, and suddenly that sound of despair that I had heard once before after she saw my friend and I digging up the remains of our dog that was buried in the backyard just so we could see what he looked like.


 One trunk, no branches, just one trunk stood by itself, naked for all the world to see.


 Mom cried. I cried. We cleaned up the messes together  and she said “things will be okay”.


 And they were.


 Sixty years later when I drove by my childhood home, I saw the wonderful, beautiful, colorful redbud tree. It’s trunk a foot in diameter, its branches reaching 20 feet into the sky.


Moms always know when things will be okay.
 

   
   ”