FINDING The THREAD

In memory,
a THREAD begins to reveal itself.
Ahead are endless, unplanned days.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

FINDING THE THREAD

In memory,

the thread begins to reveal itself.

Ahead are endless, unplanned days.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“We have to have a plan”, I told everyone.

But where was my plan?

If I could see ahead just a little,

maybe I could unravel the thread.

 

Walking into our spare bedroom this morning,

the view turned from dark

to sunshine.

A scene exploded in my memory.

 

I could see my father lying on the bed we borrowed

from hospice.

 

We wanted his last days

to be spent with a view of our peaceful world;

the trees,

our flock of sheep,

the horses in the pasture.

 

I hope he loved the quiet scenes before him.

Fall yard

The Lord is my Shepherd…

He makes me to lay down in green pastures. 

He restores my soul”.

 

I hope my Dad’s soul was restored.

He knew what he was facing.

He wouldn’t talk to us about it.

That was his way of dealing

with the impending transition.

(A visiting minister later revealed that Dad had asked him what heaven was like. I think we all may have that question in our hearts.)

 

We visited with Dad as often as we could,

as did many friends

in those last few days.

We could only face the situation

by continuing our daily routines.

He did his best

to honor our game.

 

Dad didn’t retire

until the age of sixty-nine.

It seemed like a grand old age in those years,

but now it seems rather young to me.

He always had a plan,

a routine,

an interest, and a goal.

He was disciplined,

determined,

loving and reliable,

 committed to his family.

 

What about me?

There are many questions;

 not many answers.

I want my life to count for something.

 Have I stopped counting?

 

What happens in the single parent family

when the parental balance

does not exist?

 

What happens to the marriage,

with no plans for commitment?

 

 The last two generations have given us a preview of a very different society.

 

Has the media become the parent?

Is the media making our moral judgments?

Everyone is doing it, and I want to do it too.

 

Blame for bad outcomes can always be affixed to someone,

somewhere,

somehow.

By what moral standards does this new generation make its’ decisions?

 

There is a new intensity in my nightly prayers.

 He is much closer.

 My time to see Him face to face

is much nearer than before.

I’m beginning to see a thread.

 
copyright@2018
Photography By Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

CUSTOMS OR HABITS..Choose one.

Are your habits serving you well?

“He went to the synagogue, as was His custom”…

One day, when I was seventeen, my sister asked me to baby-sit with her infant son while they went out for the evening. I loved the little boy dearly.

The baby was suffering from a slight cold; my sister’s instructions were to give him a spoon full of cough medicine from a bottle which she had left on the counter in the kitchen. When the time came to administer the cough syrup, I picked up the bottle, poured the medicine into a spoon and offered it to the baby.

As was my habit, I didn’t bother to turn on the light in the kitchen.

The child immediately began to cough and cry, as he choked and spit out most of the medicine on his pajamas. This was not really an unusual response to bad tasting medicine, or so I thought. I turned on the light in the kitchen to assess the situation.

There was another small bottle on the counter. Upon checking, I saw that it contained the cough medicine.

The liquid I had poured into the spoon, was Tincture of Benzoin Compound, a substance used in vaporizers to help in easing breathing problems. Two bottles sat on the counter; without the light to show the names on the labels, I had chosen the wrong one.

I was devastated. This child who I dearly loved had nearly been poisoned by my irresponsible action. The little boy was fine. He suffered no ill effects from my carelessness, since most of the liquid had fallen on his pajamas.

Because of that experience, I have adopted a discipline; never administer or take a medication without first carefully checking the directions in the light.

This has become my custom and it has served me, and others, well.

I was reading an explanation of a “parable”, recently. The reference said Jesus often used parables for his listeners to quickly understand the point he was making. What idea would come into a person’s mind when they heard the story he told them?

The article went on to say, the best thing to do to help a person, is to get them to think for themselves.

Is a “habit” the same as a “custom”?

When the habit of attending church becomes a custom to us, we are ready to live; to worship and praise, to love and be loved, to listen and share His word within the congregation of Christ on Sunday morning.

We are no longer burdened with a weekly decision; should I go or should I stay home? It’s no longer a habit…it is now our custom.

Our study group with other Christians has now become our custom. Whether we join together on Sunday morning or another time during the week, we place ourselves in a position to grow and incorporate the meaning of His Word into our lives.

It has become, our custom to listen, to learn, and to share.

Jesus, once again, has given us the example of His own life. “He went to the synagogue, as was His custom.

Are your habits serving you well? Would you like to turn them into customs? Your answer may be a life saver.

(Lord; ” Teach us Your ways. Help us to develop customs that will allow us to be used by You in Your ministries.” Amen)

***Note-The “child” is now in his seventies; in good health.

http://www.thatremindsme.net

THE RESCUE

My husband and I were standing at our living room window, watching a man walking down the distant road. The man lived nearby in a broken down house.  Every day he walked two miles to a neighborhood bar where he spent his time.

“Night fell, darkness hid the two from sight”
He worked at walking.
Stumbling,
                                             weaving,
                                                                               tumbling,
                                                                                                                falling…
Each night at dusk he turned for home, deaf to traffic sounds.  Reeling into roadside ditch, he lay upon the ground in bleak half-conscious stupor.
With effort, he crawled to the ditch’s edge, then worked at walking
once again.  
The man continued through his nightly ritual.
 My friend approached the sodden hulk.  Bending down, he knelt beside the fallen man;  with strong and steady arms, he began “The Rescue”….
 My friend was not a hero.  I was only an observer.  Though years have passed, the vivid scene remains.
 Whose life was changed?  Whose journey reached a crossroad?  Whose path was interrupted by a chance encounter?  
Was it the man?  Was it the friend?  Was it me?
 What are you thinking now?
 Night fell. Darkness hid the two from sight.
 “The Rescue” had begun.
 copyright@2020
It has been many years since this incident took place.
 We were standing at our living room window, watching a man walking down the distant road. He lived nearby in a broken down house.  Every day he walked two miles to a neighborhood bar where he spent the long hours.
 We didn’t always see him traveling on the way to his daily destination. Nor did we see him when he was going home.  
But this day, we saw him walking toward his home.  
He staggered and stumbled, repeatedly falling into the deep ditch
beside the road.
For moments he was out of sight.  Then, once more, we saw him crawling up from the ditch and struggling to his feet.  Walking a few steps, he fell once more. Again he crawled up the side of the ditch on his hands and knees and attempted to stand.
 I became aware my husband had left my side.
Now, in his truck, he was driving down our driveway toward the distant road.  Stopping at the place where the man was lying beside the ditch, my husband got out of his truck and approached the figure.
 Taking him by the arm, he helped the man to his feet.
 He later told me he had intended to help him into the cab of the truck, but the man protested.  “I’m not clean enough to sit in your truck.  Help me into the back.  I’ll ride home there.”
 As this scene unfolded before my eyes, I was surely not aware it would remain in my memory and my heart, many years later.
 How many of us, including me, would leave the comfort of home to help a drunken, smelly man get safely to his home?
 This was a side of my husband about which I wasn’t aware at the time.  Yes, he was kind, gentle and caring.  The scene I watched was more than that.
 The experience changed me.  Maybe it has changed you.
 At this stage of life it has become clear to me, we all need to be rescued.
Our Friend is on His way.
————–
 As time passed,  we discussed the incident; facts revealed themselves about the man who was rescued.
 He was a veteran from World War 2.
 We have since become aware of the experiences our soldiers endured during that time which were too horrible for them to remember.
 We now call it PTSD.
 It has been found, for some of the veterans, it is easier to drink away the memories than to relive them in their minds.
 In our village, there were three World War 2 veterans who spent their days at the same local bar.  
The world called them drunks. Should we have called them heroes?
 How do you feel about it?

http://www.thatremindsme.net

A Wish Organization for Senior Veterans

“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck

LETTER FOR A SOLDIER RETURNING HOME

The older you grow the greater is your responsibility toward life, society, and the two people who created you, your Mother and Father.

 

A letter To Don..from Bill….

 
Note: To be opened the last morning you are at sea on going home to the USA.

16 February 1953

Dear Don,
When I came overseas many moons ago, I was sent with a letter from my Mother.  In it she stated how on long voyages years ago, people were sent with ship messages. There was then an age of letter writing which seems to have passed, except for the ghosts that may rove the skeleton of some long lost ship.  There was then wind in the sails and the creak of the boards of the ship at night.  There could be heard the rustle of silk in women’s dresses.
Men and women were probably doing just as we do today if given the opportunity.  That is, jumping from bunk to bunk.
 Right now, right at this living moment, I am writing this on the usual, sunless, dull, German day in the office of the captain.
In time, all our importance melts away, and yet as a part of history we remain an important factor in time.  The way you live, the love you have for life, the love you have for others and the understanding of them, the love you have for a woman and your unborn children are of great importance.
Whether you are ever known as an individual, it is the way you are which makes the “To Be” of a better world.  Now you are nearing home to the land that I love so deeply.  I would want to claim that land in a deeper way than you can in your youth.
Someday you will know what I mean.  Someday you will know that the earth in a bog swamp when you are out duck hunting is the cleanest mud in the world.
 Don’t ever forget that part of your life which you spent in a foreign land.  There were circumstances you did not like. They have helped to keep that mud as clean as it is. Sometimes Don, I hope you are looking at that lost land where you like to lose yourself.

You’ll find the air just a bit sharp.  You will like the smell that time of year.
Whether it is summer, fall, winter or spring, just breathe deeper because you are alive.
 God is in Nature and you are close to it and to Him.  In college it would be called Pantheism. I’d rather call it the awareness of Don knowing Don.  You can call it whatever.  It doesn’t matter what you call it just so you remember that when it happens and it will.
 The sea where you read this is deep.  Your feet will soon touch shore. Right now you are pipeline and lost.
Soon the inevitable pattern will establish itself.  You will be a civilian with all the responsibilities of one.  To drive safely, to love right, to build a home, and to vote are small and important things.  To be aware when you’re on a hunting trip
that you are the greatest being God ever made is important too.
That’s about all I have to say, Don.
This is my shipboard letter to you with the exception of one thing.
The more you grow the more you will become aware of this.
The older you grow the greater is your responsibility toward life, society, and the two people who created you, your Mother and Father.
Your friend….
Meade

 

April 22, 1930-February 24, 2017

* * *

My husband, Don, passed away in 2017.
In going through his special drawer for saving things important to him,
 I found this letter. 
I didn’t know his friend “Meade”.
 I don’t need to know him. He was a special man.
Although we shared 62 years of marriage, 
I didn’t know Don as a soldier, when he was newly discharged from the service.
 He would have celebrated his 87th birthday in April of 2017.
 His great respect for God, family and nature never ceased.
I hope you enjoyed this special letter
from “Meade”….
copyright©2017
Photographs By Mary Anne Tuck

http://www.thatremindsme.net

 

PEARL HARBOR

Tenth Grade English Composition
 1951

Mary Anne Whitchurch (Tuck)

December 7, 1941

 On a cold, grey morning

when the fog had yet to rise;

The seagulls made a flutter
 like a bird of paradise.
The waves were as a rose vine
 coils in an arbor,
Thus began the day
  Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.
The sun had yet to rise that day, 
December seven.
Dawn had just receded 
to another day in heaven,
When from the sky a frightful noise
 came booming from the guns.
Now in the place of clouds and sky
 had come 
The Rising Sun.
Their guns were all ablaze.
From the air there came a shrieking of bullets whizzing by to find their targets,
 quickly streaking.
The planes upon the ground 
were shattered as they stood.
For the men to take their stations
would, of course, have done no good.
The people who had lived at Pearl Harbor
 were not spared.
Families of the fighting men 
were sadly not prepared.
A couple that had risen right at dawn
 to walk for pleasure
Were shattered,
killed by bullets 
which were made for such a measure.
A moment quickly passed.
  The air was filled with death.
Looking toward the morning sky, 
only clouds were left.
The sun had risen in the east; 
its bright light
showed a flood
of red, red streaks 
upon the ground,
 now sadly stained
 with blood.
The stillness in the morning air 
seemed empty, 
dark and chilling.
A group of planes had quickly come. 
 Their one intent was killing.
The second world war began.
 With it came the strife
for families
of the men 
whose fate it was 
to lose their life.
Pearl Harbor was the turning point 
in nineteen forty-one.
It was to bring a mask of death 
for five long years to come.
The seventh day of every month 
we pause 
and should remember…
The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor
on the seventh of December.
copyright©2018
* * * * * *

I’ve often wondered at the intensity of thought
 of a 16 year old girl, (that was me),
 considering the awful event of

Pearl Harbor.

This was written in 1951.
 The event had happened only ten years earlier.
 Although it seems to us in 2020 
as only a point in history, 
it was very real to a teen-ager 
in those days.

The war had been over for 6 years at that time.
 It remained fresh in the minds of our people.

The men and women who served in the war, 
some  of whom are still with us today,
 can never erase the images 
of  the horrors they witnessed
 during their time of service to our country.

December 7th is a date to remember.

If we cannot remember what happened on that date,
investigate the history books.

It must never happen again.

***
copyright©2020
http://www.thatremindsme.net

IT ISN’T THE GAME – IT’S THE WAY YOU PLAY IT!

We are the most respected nation in the world.
We have no need for “factual” propaganda 
if such a thing exists.
* * *

Who’s On First?

A Masterpiece For The Taking

Musings of a Homemaker-Houghton Lake Resorter

1963

Some of our most respected state senators 
conduct endless filibusters.A few have ended in deadlocked debate
 over an outer space, 
government controlled, 
space communications network.  Russia continues to bombard us 
with undeniably 
magnificent advances  in the current space race.
 We are content to ignore, as much as possible, the daily reports of peace talks. 
  America is lacking 
in the mastery of space.In comparison to the USSR,
 we panic.We are disbelieving, angered and bewildered, 
 faced with a  grim fact. The industrially backward nation of Soviet Russia 
 has beaten our free, democratic society in such an important area;
 space exploration.We’ve listened, read and watched
with mounting dismay, 
the multi-orbital flight of two,
 now world renowned,
 Cosmonauts.
All but forgotten 
is the remarkable achievement 
Russia has accomplished.
All but forgotten, 
in favor of a race
 to be first.
This has become an obvious and 
often overlooked  habit
 of America.   We became so involved in the Game
 we lost sight 
of the objective.
How discouraging to feel, 
after decades of war, this unrest between nations.
There is now the imminent danger
 of a contest
 for the control of space.
America is on the verge of discoveries in space
 about which no one is certain. 
The possibilities 
may be unknown; 
beyond comprehension
  to the science community.
Understanding the complexities of space 
is impossible for the average person.
The intricacies 
of securing good personal and community relationships, 
are right at our fingertips and we know how to achieve them.
Our country would profit from renewing our personal, community and neighborhood relations.
A trip to the moon is not needed
in order to renew them.

 We are a free people. 

There is a need 
to spend more time
 improving our own planet.  There is a need to restore a people to people togetherness and care network.
Such restoration 
is important to our nation.
An ocean was crossed to find America.
The United States of America 
 has always searched 
to find the better place, the better way.
We are the most respected nation in the world.
We have no need for “factual” propaganda 
if such a thing exists.
* * *
* * *
2019
There I was at the age of 28, worrying about Russia.
As a country, we couldn’t accept the fact;
Russia had won race to the moon.
Where did I find such strong feelings of country,
 while facing responsibilities of raising three young boys
 while caring for a home and husband?
I became intensely involved in the state of the world,
 the politics of this country,
 and the need for person-to-person communication.
The future seemed far away.
 The present weighed heavily.
Perhaps my interest in politics came from my Dad.
 His interest was strong.
 However, my intense interest at twenty-eight
 was put aside
until much later in my life.
By the time I reached sixty, Dad had passed from this life.
    My renewed interest in politics, much like Dad’s, had once again intensified. We cannot ignore the state of this present world.
 Over the years
I have not changed my mind.
It all begins with “people”.
And now, I would add 
“Faith”.
copyright©2019
 Photography By Mary Anne Whitchurch Tuck
http://www.thatremindsme.net

WHERE’S THE BEEF?

 When lilac bushes appear in a vacant field,
we know an old Michigan farm 
once stood nearby.

Musings of a Homemaker – Houghton Lake Resorter Newspaper
Spring 1964

Strolling down our lane 
one may be overwhelmed by the aroma of lilacs and apple blossoms.  Tiny pink flowers nod gently in the spring breeze.

 When lilac bushes appear in a vacant field, we know an old Michigan farm once stood nearby.

We are careless with adjectives;

 lovely, cute and sweet. 


When something is found worthy of a special description, 

words are used

 in a careless fashion.

They are overdone and unimpressive.

Have we become a nation of adjective droppers?

Little girls are sweet and cars are sweet. 
Dresses are sweet.
Fishing rods are sweet.  Sugar is sweet

The weather is lovely.
 Your wife is lovely.
 Children are lovely. 
Dinner is lovely.

Freckles are cute. 

Your husband is cute.
Puppies  are cute.
 Babies are cute.

Everything is sweet, cute and lovely.

WHERE’S THE BEEF?

Teen-agers are sometimes
 juvenile delinquents.
 We may have delinquent taxes.

Senior citizens may have
 gray hair.
Gray haired people may be
 senior citizens.

Phrases overused
are lost.

 Adjectives can become
 bruised, broken and meaningless.

Let’s save them for another day.

***

(This all seemed like a good idea in 1964)

And then..

Where are we now?

What happened to the adjectives? 
They were sweet, cute and lovely.

 Now it’s PC…G….and LOL.

It may be ESP and APP.
We are politically correct. 

Or are we?

Oh, and by the way, we type “PC” for “politically correct” now.

Those in the know understand 
what we mean.

We  type G for “grin.” LOL
  means “laugh out loud.

ESP Stands for

  “extrasensory perception“;

APP

 for “application.”

We type 

COOL for “good, 
wonderful,
 smart 
and up to date”.

A perfectly wonderful language
 has been simplified 
to nothing. 

Children in elementary school are not being taught cursive writing. Much of their writing is unreadable.

Making matters worse,
many young people
cannot “read” cursive writing.

Think about it!

The United States Constitution
was produced in cursive writing.

President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address

was written by him, as the story goes, in cursive writing,
as he was seated on a train
on his way to Gettysburg.

Why have we decided

to avoid teaching cursive writing
 to generations of  young Americans
who will never be able to read
those original, historical papers?

In response to questioning,

 a teacher informed me,

 “Within ten years
 no one will be using handwriting.
 Everyone will be using computers.”

Think of the handwriting experts

who will be unemployed.
(That’s a joke.)
With this information in mind,
 the overuse of “adjectives ” becomes cute and darling.

You can now describe almost anything at all
with the terms, “sweet and lovely,”.
Over-used adjectives of the past, may have become the only remaining,
 desirable speech.

Our English language
 is bruised and broken.
 It has been transformed into 
disconnected letters.

Bring back the adjectives.
 Bring the verbs and the adverbs.

I long for them.

Is it just me?

copyright©2018
Photography By Mary Anne Tuck

http://www.thatremindsme.net

copyright@2018

A GIFT TO BE SHARED

Ann was healed and she was in heaven!
The Holy Spirit was giving to me the knowledge of her healing.
I received the confirmation of her new life 
as a gift.
It is a gift I will remember and cherish all the days of my life.

ANN…
 

Remembering  Ann

 

A gift to  cherish….

Ann lived a short distance from our house.  
 She and her husband moved to the neighborhood
 from the southern part of the state 
where she had worked in a factory and he had been employed
 as a heavy equipment operator.
 Now retired, they spent their time caring for their home.
 They had no children and were deeply devoted to each other.
Plain looking and soft spoken,
 Ann had the proverbial heart of gold. 
Her graying hair was not stylishly fixed
 in the fashion of the day.

Each year ann raised a beautiful circular flower garden 
with a birdbath in the center
 surrounded by colorful flowers.
The garden prospered under Ann’s tender care.

The two were always nearby,  lending a helping hand
 when one was needed. 
 Appearing on a summer’s evening to visit for a time,
 there was always encouragement in planning our young lives,
 with an offer to help in any way they could.

 

Ann unwittingly helped me to acquire a taste for sauerkraut. 
I could never abide the bitter taste no matter how I tried. 
 One day, I stopped by her house. 
The wonderful aroma in her kitchen caused me to inquire
 about what she was cooking.
 Her answer was sauerkraut. 
I shared with her my utter dislike for it.
Ann suggested I should add brown sugar 
and a couple of quartered apples to the sauerkraut as it cooked.
 What a difference that combination made.

 

Perhaps there’s a lesson here. 
It may be the “lack” of seasoning that causes bitterness
But the “addition” of something sweet
 can change bitterness to joy
 and give us a new appetite for life.

 

One day I learned Ann was in the hospital for stomach surgery.
 The results were not good. 
She had cancer and nothing could be done.

 

coming home to spend her remaining days
 in her own bed and her own home,
 surrounded by things and people she loved.
 By this time, Ann was in her late sixties.

 

Life, for me, at that time, 
had been completely turned around
 by the joy and knowledge of the Holy Spirit. 

The Bible was exciting. 
Scripture was leaping off the pages of the Bible, to me,
 as it had never done before.  

I prayed incessantly for Ann’s healing. 
 I had faith and prayed for more faith 
and more understanding 
and always
 for the complete healing of Ann’s body.

Time passed and healing was not evident.

 I searched scripture for more information.
  There were many passages for guidance.
 1Thess.5: 27 “pray without ceasing”.

 

The disciples asked Jesus
 why they had not had a healing for someone
 by praying for them.
 Jesus responded; Matthew 17:21 
“this kind does not go out
 except by prayer and fasting.”
Further, it is noted He said to them.,
“This kind can come out by nothing but prayer and fasting”.

 

For the first and only time in my life, I fasted; and
  prayed without ceasing for 24 hours. 
The fasting directed my complete attention to the prayer,
 to Ann, 
and to the Spirit of God.

 

I was confident

that Ann would be healed. 
She was not.
 A few weeks later, Ann died. 

I questioned God, my faith, and myself.

Ann was a devout Catholic.
 Her funeral was held in the local Catholic Church.
 Our family sat in the back of the church 
quietly observing the unfamiliar (to us)

funeral rituals.

 

I was sad for the loss of my friend, Ann. 
For me, the words of the service fell on closed ears and a heavy heart.

Suddenly I was amazed.
  I felt a great feeling of joy welling up within me.

 I was overwhelmed with the knowledge being given to me. 
 Ann was healed.
 She was in heaven.

 The promises of God were fulfilled. 
“I go to prepare a place for you. Where I am you will be also.”

Ann was healed and she was in heaven!

The Holy Spirit was giving to me the knowledge of her healing.

I received the confirmation of her new life 
as a gift.

It is a gift I will remember and cherish all the days of my life.

* * *

A Gift To Be Shared

One treasures the people in life who made a difference 
in the way we lived then and now.

 

I would not have identified Ann as such an important person,
 until my experience at the time of her death.

 

I now believe that God called me to Ann’s friendship
 so He could show me

His Way.

It’s hard to explain my experience the day of Ann’s funeral.

The feeling was instant, intense and joyful.

I’ve shared my feelings
 with friends and family.
But there is no way to convey 
the intensity of the joy I felt 
as I sat quietly in the back row of an unfamiliar church 
during an equally unfamiliar funeral service. 

 Maybe that was part of God’s plan too.

 

Belief in Ann’s healing 
and belief in life after life
 in a perfect state of being
 will never change for me.

 

It truly is “A Gift To Be Shared”

copyright©2017
http://www.thatremindsme.net

http://www.thatremindsme.blog

 

 

 

VIEW FROM MY PORCH SWING

The View From My Porch Swing

1996

Through the years I’ve watched our trees that never seem to change.

Across the road,

where once our sons and neighbor children came to play

on fields of meadow grass,

there now grow trees and underbrush

so high

no pathways show.

Even now,

those boys and girls seem ever young.

My thoughts are filled with

visions of them playing there.

Hidden there midst oak and pine,

in memory,

there lies an open meadow.
Joyful youth played games

on long, 
hot summer  days

in full pursuit of life.

Those days and sights and sounds of living

never left my inner soul.
 Returning to this quiet place,
 from the porch swing

I relive those treasured days

of years gone by.

Gently swinging,

deep in thought,

memories return.
 I recall each day with love.

The day begins at summer’s dawn

and ends
 with muffled, evening sounds.

Nothing troubles,

thoughts abound, peace is found.

2020

Now sixty-one years have passed

and memories remain.

Our porch is now a deck.
 The swing remains a “porch swing.” 
“Deck swing” somehow cannot recall 
those precious times

of years gone by.

Three sons have grown to men.  When first we came to our “farm”, our oldest son was three, our middle son was six months, and the youngest was to be born three years later.

 A grandson and granddaughter have added to the enjoyment 

of this peaceful homestead.

The barn is now one hundred-three years old.

The house is eighty-four.
 In addition to our three boys and two grandchildren,
 this homestead

has entertained many animals and pets and gardens. (Or did they entertain us?)Adding to our contentment, we now have four great-granddaughters to introduce to our peaceful farm.

The neighbor kids have grown. 
They now have children and grandchildren of their own.

Our middle son passed away

seven years ago.
Even so, our cherished memories will never change.

Tim

The porch swing now provides a peaceful place
 to remember

all the times of joy and sadness.

 We were sitting on the porch swing 
when the news of my Father’s death

came to us.

 We gathered here as a family
 to enjoy the wedding receptions of our sons,
 and to celebrate
 their high-school graduations.

We’ve entertained our friends at church picnics

And celebrated birthday parties.
 Friends of our grown children 
have come to share an occasional Sunday afternoon

Our memories are many….

from our porch swing.

 Don…1930-2017

and…Laddie

copyright©2018
Photography By Mary Anne Tuck