Down memory lane

 My wife decided to check the mailbox today, and as she did so, a car pulled in and backed out. She waved to them, and at the moment they rolled down the window, an elderly gentleman told her that he was 87 and that his daughter was driving him to visit where he grew up, a trip down memory lane.

I immediately thought of my own dad, who at 87 decided to take a trip back to Ohio without telling anyone. He had been in failing health, and this decision caused my mother and my siblings to become very concerned. It was an 8 or 9-hour trip, and he had decided not to answer his phone because he knew the grief he would get from us, especially me. He made it safely to my uncle's house and quietly listened as I scolded him.  The main thing was that he was safe and would keep his phone on so we could keep in touch and know when he would be heading back home.

Dad knew that his life was coming to an end soon, and he wanted to visit all the old landmarks and old acquaintances, if they still existed, by himself. And when he returned home safely, we understood why he took the trip, and the stories were special even to this day.

Sitting on Hookers Creek gives me plenty of time to reflect on memories, and there are many. The creek is low, and the water path has changed direction. Even the sounds are different. Water is dancing around the rocks instead of over them. My life’s direction has changed, and so have the sounds. But there is something consistent about the creek, even when the temperature seems unbearable. When I put my feet in the water as I sit in my chair over the shallow waters, I not only enjoy the cool breezes but also the coolness of the spring-fed waters as they rush across my feet.

Memories are sometimes like the water paths in my creek; they can change at the first good downpour, or even during a flood. Stones, both small and large, move down the stream, and where they stop will determine both the sights and sounds.

We can reflect or capture the moments of our lives and spin them into tales that are told.  Or our memories can be something that produces a legacy.

My dad’s memory, his stories they produced a legacy. What will I produce?