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I sit on my
cabin porch admiring the beauty. My eyes begin where the mountain meets
the sky, green against blue. Below, the sun glistens off the calm but
wind-rippled surface of the lake - a reservoir that never grew to meet the
expectations of the state of Tennessee. An occasional speed boat or bass
boat disturbs the peaceful scene. On this side of a breakwater, a variety
of boats bob along the piers.
As I slip into a more relaxed state, my mother's voice echoes through
my mind. A new scene appears before my eyes.
There on the side of the mountain, a large farmhouse sits in a small
clearing. Hens can be heard cackling in the distance and, nearer,
children's voices echo through the woods. Fields of tobacco stretch down
to the banks of a slow, meandering river echoing in the hollows. In the
distance a tall, darkly tanned man walks behind his plow preparing another
field for another crop.
This man, in his faded overalls and big boots, I know only from old
photographs and family stories. This man was killed three years before my
birth. Do I really know him? Not the way I knew my my other grandpa. He
was taken away from his family and the future by the greed of a few men.
I'm not saying it wasn't part of God's plan but it does seem unfair.
As my mother's voice continues, I learn more. He worked for
everything he had or needed. He would go out of his way to help his
neighbors. He taught his children respect, love, and a good work ethic.
Like all kids, they thought he was too strict, worked them too hard, and
that he didn't love them as a daddy should. Children don't always see the
real truth. But that voice, the adult voice, in my head is speaking with
love. Sure, there are words of discontent, but none of hatred. That voice
has taught me much.
I only know him through his daughter's stories. I never got to meet
the man behind the words. None of this matters - I love you Granddad. |
