Mama's Favorite Season

All of my life, I have enjoyed spring, but I've never loved it the way Mama did. Perhaps it was growing up on a farm, watching crops go in, as well as watching nature wake up from winter hibernation. Maybe it was that she did not have allergies, not the way hubby and I do. Mama was not much of gardener, not until her empty nest years, which were cut short by cancer. She did have beautiful azaleas, planted in a circle around an oak tree that was over a hundred years old, and the driveway was defined by huge clumps of jonquils and thrift. In other spots, she had planted various roses, with hydrangeas and other staples of southern flower gardens.

The road where I live now was once one of the prettiest in our small southern town. Some of the woods have given way to mini-mansions on half acre lots, surrounded by some uber-ugly fencing, and other folks have pulled up older plants which no doubt suffered in recent droughts. Still there are enough dogwoods and azaleas to remind me that spring is a beautiful time of year.

Easter moves about the calendar according to some arcane rules that few people bother to learn. I do have clear memories of Mama teaching me about the legend associated with the unique dogwood blossom. Daddy always cut the grass the day before Easter, whether it needed it or not, just to "make it easier to find those eggs." Mama and Daddy made finding the eggs a simple, fun-filled event. However, if we had an egg hunt at the Dodd's, my older male cousins put eggs in all sorts of weird places, including the forks of high trees. Only the brave got all the eggs in Nanny Dodd's backyard.

One of my favorite photographs of Mama was made on her last Easter, bending her six-foot frame over to guide my daughter, not quite two years old, to find eggs, poorly hidden among those flowers in her front yard.

Ah, yes, spring has come to Georgia, with thunder, lightning, hail, and a river of yellow pollen running down the driveway. My neighbor has a glorious row of multicolored azaleas lining her driveway, and I have a large, native dogwood in bloom. Once again, it is mama's favorite season, and I love to take in all the natural beauty. Hubby, give me another Claratin, because I just can't stay inside.

Daddy—

According to the Wall Street Journal, modern children should count themselves as privileged if they have a father figure in the home. My father was certainly not perfect (who is?) but he was a man who did care about the welfare of his family. From my earliest recollection, he was interested in me, and did his best to provide for all our needs. When my stick horse lost its ability to entertain me, he built a sturdy saw horse and stuck the head at one end so I could grasp the reins and be off on myriad imaginary adventures, even if the horse was stationary.

From an early age, Daddy taught me how to identify and use the tools in his tool box and his workshop. I can read a rule, saw a board with a hand saw or a radial arm saw, and design and produce basic and intermediate furniture projects, due to his tutoring. He also taught me to mow a lawn, ride a tractor and a horse, and yes, how to ride a motorcycle. Although he did issue verbal instructions and tell stories, he also understood that imitation is a great teaching tool. He would straddle one motorcycle, and as I sat another one, he simply said, “Follow me and do as I do.” One of my cousins laughed at the way I set up for a curve when on two wheels. “Pam, you ride that Honda like a it was a Harley.” That makes some sense, in that Daddy was originally a Harley rider, and I learned my riding skills by watching every nuance of his technique.

Although he had little formal schooling, Daddy tried to help us with ours. He willingly built gadgets for science projects and even a minature version of “Uncle Remus’ Cabin” for an eighth grade Georgia history project. When I wanted to go to college rather than a trade school, Daddy didn’t really understand, but he helped with the bills, and I never left home without him asking if I needed some money to get through the week. He even rescued me when I had car trouble, and over the years I was in college and graduate school, he made many trips to the mountains, with a tool box and a lot of skills not taught at either Piedmont or North Georgia College.

Later, he passed on parenting skills. “Pam, those children are smart. Don’t just tell them what to do, explain it.” Hubby and I differ on that point sometimes, but I do think that when students or my children know why I make the decisions I make, it is easier for them to be motivated. I use this when I teach and when I parent.

Daddy is gone, but not forgotten. Never.