We headed for the back yard and got to work. I had my back to him, probably weeding or mulching the flower beds, my memory is hazy. But what I do remember is the startling fact that when I turned around after seemingly-few moments, the back yard was covered with branches. (Front yard, too!) "Dad! could you maybe leave me a few trees?!"
Fast forward. Today I decided to tackle the burning bush before they grew to second-story-level. (Just kidding.) The legacy continues. Snip a little here, lop a little there - and there I was with debris all over the front yard.
The loppers hold life lessons for me.
The importance of memory. The afternoon my dad and I spent together those years ago lives on in my memory. It was the dark time after divorce and I didn't know a whole lot about how to take care of a yard. As a matter of fact, I hadn't mowed a lawn until I was nearly 40 years old. My dad drove the 35 miles to my house to help me that day. And every time I lop branches I smile, remembering those piles of branches strewn across the yard.
The importance of heritage. Dad is a gardener, as were others in his family. So there was a gardening gene somewhere that emerged - inevitably? - 15 years ago. It turns out that my dahlia fascination connects back to a previous generation. My love of petunias stems directly from Dad. He talked about them for years, and I had a "Yeah, yeah" attitude - until I planted my first flat of crazy blooming, blooming, blooming purple petunias. Well, he was right. (And not just about the petunias).
The importance of attentiveness. Sometimes there is a gift hidden, one that must be uncovered by lopping. If I'm too busy or hurried, if I don't lop deeply enough, I'll miss it.
In this season of Dad's illness, I'm lopping.
Lopping the good in order to get the best.
Saying "no" to non-essentials in order to gain essentials.
Memory. Heritage. Attentiveness.
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