A Letter Home

Take a look at the past. There are joys there to be remembered.

c e hollis

Dear Daddy,

As the old red pickup trundled past and down the road to where the trees on either side seemed to gobble it in their overhanging branches, I stood watching and my mind ran back to another time and place, and another old pickup. We rode in the back that Saturday morning, headed for adventure, headed to the dump with you. A lovely day trip for children who hoped to scavenge some old wheels or other such goodies.

We rounded the bend and rode with the wind streaming through our hair down into town, past the schoolhouse and the baseball field, around the corner at the Dummer’s big white house, left, and on around the lake, crossing the river bridge and stopping at the sand hills for a bit of fun sliding, rolling, and tumbling in the beige river sand. You showed us the nests of the cliff dweller birds there. Some had eggs! Then back in the pickup and off up the hill to the dump in search of some findings. Well, of course, actually for ridding our house of the week’s trash.

It was an adventure to see the place—to see what folks had hauled off besides their kitchen trash. Once we spotted a bike wheel and another time what appeared to be the remains of an old baby buggy. An occasional shot mattress, a broken lamp, or a beat up couch was piled close to the road. We pilfered through and found nothing you were willing to allow us to claim and load into your truck.

We headed then to the community garden and checked on our corn rows. No full ears yet––but soon. You hoed a while while we ran through the shady lanes between the rows before we set out around the lake to the gas station. With the fill-up the proprietor gifted us kids with strands of sweet red licorice. What a treat!

Love you, Elece

P.S. Thanks Dad, for letting us go along. I sure do miss those days of carefree childhood fun. I miss riding with you. I miss you voice and your laugh. You haven’t written to me in a while now. I’ll be watching the mailbox.

Look to the rock from which you were hewn and to the quarry from which you were dug.

Isaiah 51:1

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