The Apple Tree

I knew this time was coming. I didn’t want to see it happen.

Dad’s apple tree, planted so many years before, now lays barren and dry waiting for the approaching winter.

Gone are the profuse, fragrant blossoms of springtime.


























The abundant, vibrant red apples have all been picked, harvested at the peak of ripeness.






























Even the leaves, now colored by the short days and cool nights, float to the ground, making wind-blown piles beneath the branches.


All that is left is to peacefully accept the changing seasons, with the full knowledge—and no regrets— that we enjoyed the fruit while we could, while we had the chance—making lots of deserts, sharing with others what we were given, and even storing up applesauce in the freezer for when the cold storms of winter blow and threaten to erase the memory of our little tree that gave all it had. It will be then that the fruit will taste the sweetest. When we remember….



While I can do nothing to change the course of time, I remain standing confidently and waiting patiently for the promise that heavenly springtime will come again.



Ecclesiastes 3
1To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

Their Father's Children?!

I had to go back and apologize two days later. It was a very humbling experience. I had gotten *slightly* worked up at my daughter's field hockey game and was yelling at the ref. The score was 0-4 and the ref (actually a former player for our exact team) was going overboard with her judgement calls as not to appear partial to her alma mater. She might not have even heard my more-than-irritated comments about her lack of eyesight. But the other spectators did. I was a poor example, and I did try to right my wrong.

Yes, I am that parent. You know the one.

I try to be encouraging to my daughter and her teammates, but I am NOT quiet. Most of them appreciate my comments. They say "Emily, away games are really quiet without your mom!"
The thought was not lost on me that Dad used to be the EXACT same way. I remember Dad, as one of my most loyal and supportive fans, attending as many of my games as possible. He would leave work early (prior to 4 pm quitting time) to take in most of that day's game (usually STARTED at 4 pm).
Larry can tell stories of his old wrestling days when Dad would get a little hyper (ahem) at the refs, opponents, and sometimes even other fans.
Why is it that Dad would get so worked up about sports and his kids seemed to have followed in his footsteps?
Barry joyfully received (for his birthday) multiple clothing items branded with the Penn State logo. "Dad taught me to love the Phillies, that's for sure."
Larry faithfully watches his favorite teams on television. Don't try to talk to him about anything else during one of those games!
As for me? Meh. Sports, shmorts. Or so I thought. Until my daughter was the one on the field!
Apparently, that trait has been passed on to the next generation (in my family, at least) as last week Emily received the "Braves Award" for her field hockey team--given to the player with the most dedication, positive attitude, hard work, sportsmanship (don't know if my family line can take credit for that one!) heart and talent (scoring the most goals for her team this season).

LAUGHTER!!

October 12, 1993

Seventeen years ago at this time, my life hung in the balance. Given only a 50-50 chance of survival, after surgery I was listed in critical condition. My car accident rocked the world of those closest to me. I spent six weeks in the hospital recovering. Dad left his desk at work that rainy Tuesday morning when the call came in and didn't look back until he knew I would live, not so much as even a phone call back to his co-workers. Nearly every waking moment he and Mom spent as close to my hospital bed as possible. Early on, most of those agonizing hours were spent with family and friends in the Trauma Unit Waiting Room, praying, talking, sometimes even crying. One dozen long-stemmed red roses sat beside my photograph on the window sill.

This year on October 12, Mom sent me 12 red roses to remember that first dozen roses and rejoice. Praise God, I am healed completely!

Now, all these years later, Dad verbalized to Mom that he didn't even realize I ever had a car accident.

September is the time for....

Visiting Dad- Sept 1 2010

For some reason, I was telling my children recently the sketchy story of Poppy as the Green Hornet. The details escape me. Dad, in his childhood, somehow decided he would try his hand at flying—without an airplane. Possibly prompted by a green cape and a masked superhero vigilante named the “Green Hornet” (and I’m sure without any encouragement from brothers, nephews, cousins!), Dad took to the roof. The outcome of the flying attempt has become a forgotten minor detail. I told the children that Poppy had told me some about that “Green Hornet” experience, but Grammy might not even know. We’d have to ask Uncle Virgil now; Poppy won’t remember. Today, I asked Dad about it. “Remember the Green Hornet, Dad?” As he watched me with those blue eyes, I silently begged him to remember. Please, say you remember. One small memory. Tell me something, ANYthing. Nothing. A slight shake of his head told me no. My heart sank. Mom tried. “Remember the time you chased Cora because she pushed you over the chicken coop?” Again, slight head shake. Nothing. She tried again, “How about Mitch and his hamburger stand?” This time he closed his eyes, irritated. “I remember it all. Everything you want me to. Every little trivia.” At least he can still be sarcastic! I had to chuckle in spite of it all.


His fingernails needed desperate attention. I know he detests having them cared for. He usually lets me take care of it, but still gets bothered. “Don’t twist them,” he often yells at me after a clip. I was sure to talk him through it this time. There were a few howls and winces, but all in all OK! When I said, “See, Dad, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He said, with a straight face, “Yeah, that was a snap.” I have to laugh when I still hear those little snippets of his sarcastic humor.

Apparently Dad was in a rare hungry mood (and he loves sweets). “Do you have anything good to eat?” (He’d already eaten a banana.) My trunk was full of groceries yet to be unloaded. Fortunately, I had purchased a few “apple fritter” donuts to take to a friend at work. When I opened the package to give him one, he commented on how good they smelled. He managed to polish off one of those puppies in record time! I didn’t know he still could do so well on his own! I asked him if they reminded him of the apple turnovers his mother used to make. Of course, he didn’t remember. But I can hope, can’t I?

Music in his soul

Tonight Dad sang with me!!!!

I ran across this youtube video www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrZXz10FcVMand decided to try the idea of "validation therapy" with Dad. AMAZING! He has been particularly non-cognizant in recent days and so I thought I would try singing to him.

Jesus is a rock in a weary land, just a stare.

Life's Evening Sun, again, more gazing at my face.

I'll Fly Away, and I paused after a phrase and he supplied "In the Morning." I sang it again and this time, he sang more!

Next, Beautiful Star of Bethlehem, and he sang HARMONY!
I said, "Vi and her boys used to sing that one." He nodded.

Then he closed his eyes--that's the signal that he's done...so I sang Victory in Jesus by myself. His eyes opened at the end of the song, "That sounded nice." And his eyes closed again. He was done for this time, but I will try again!

I know there is music in his soul!